


no peace in quiet

by alethiometry, thatsouthernanthem



Series: homestead prequels [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (as much as possible), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Buckle up kids, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Feelings, Historical Accuracy, Intrigue, Like Way More Plot Plz Help, Long, More Plot Than Part One, Oral Sex, Plot, Pomegranates, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, help me, someone won't say ily, this is gonna last forever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethiometry/pseuds/alethiometry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsouthernanthem/pseuds/thatsouthernanthem
Summary: from arkadia to amphipolis and all that's betweenhe dreams of her, for ten months, alone in arkadia. when she returns, there never seems to be a moment to catch their breath.





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys, i'm back. :) 
> 
> so this one became a lot more plot-heavy, so the smut isn't coming (lol) right off the bat. and this is gonna be a long story. a LONG LONG story, so buckle in kiddos!
> 
> as always, charlotte is the best editor/friend a gal could ask for.
> 
> find me @thatsouthernanthem on tumblr

He dreams of her.

For ten months, he has dreamed of Kassandra and the valleys and hills of her body, and for ten months he has started awake in the morning, hand reaching for a woman who is not there. He grits his teeth, steeling himself for yet another day in Lykosoura, and pushes himself from the bed.

Brasidas opens the window in the small _andron_ of the tiny house he is renting and leans out of it, blinking into the morning sun, reflecting. He and Myrrine had traveled to Arkadia and parted ways in Tegea; she had gone to find information about her Cultist, and he had traveled the region, checking in on Spartan camps, state funded farms, the training: any and everything he could think of.

But nothing had seemed wrong in any of those places. So four months ago, he moved to Lykosoura and rented a house and planted himself at the crossroads of military and wheat, and there he had found what he was looking for: somewhere along the supply line, it was going missing. Whole shipments of wheat meant to be exported to Sparta, to the war-front, waylaid and sent elsewhere, quietly and subtly.

It wasn’t bandits, Brasidas was sure. No, this was someone higher up, working for someone else. And as he learned more, he was becoming more and more sure that it had everything to do with this so-called Cult of Kosmos. So he sent a note to Myrrine, asking her to meet him here at her convenience, with no other information for counter-spies to decipher.

Sighing, he pushed himself away from the window and moved to get dressed. His journey to Arkadia with his lover’s mother had been thankfully quick. The weather had been pleasant and the horses swift and it left him with little time to wonder what to say to Myrrine, if anything. She knows where her daughter had spent her nights before leaving for Boeotia, but she doesn’t know how Brasidas feels.

Of course she doesn’t, he scoffs at himself, pinning the _chiton_ over his shoulder. Why would she? It’s not as if he had declared his love to anyone - not even Kassandra herself.

Slipping a _chlamys_ over his head, Brasidas opens the front door to breathe in the smell of wheat and horses and _farm_ , the sight of bright sun scattering over the river and the feel of the spring’s early warmth on his face. The small town is already bustling -- farmers have been up since before the dawn, soldiers doing their morning exercises -- and he joins the flow of pedestrians headed to the _agora_.

There’s a farmer here, named Phillipos, who claims to have the best pomegranates in all of Hellas, and Brasidas knows with certainty that is not true. But they are the best he’s had here in Arkadia, he will give him that.

So he does his errands: picking up pomegranates, apples and cucumbers, some wheat bread, an amphora of wine; and he listens to the idle chatter between merchants and customers, customers and farmers.

Another shipment of wheat was taken from the farm down the road. That makes twice this month for that farm alone, and the Spartans are going to want answers eventually. The financial loss each time is devastating.

A different farm is missing wheat as well -- and this time there was a _helot_ left dead for trying to defend it. Pity; he was a good worker. That makes him bristle--a man lost his life and people care more about the loss of labor, than the life. Some things don’t change, no matter the region he’s in.

Eventually the conversations turn to the trivial, gossip of the nearby city-states. And then: “Haven’t you heard! Sparta took home the Olympic wreaths! Nearly everything -- Athens won the foot-races, though, I know for sure.”

“And it was the Eagle-Bearer who won them!” A girl bounces on her feet as she whispers as loudly as she can. “I heard the original _pankration_ champion died along the way to Elis, so she took his place! Truly amazing!”

He grins into the apple he’s taken a bite of. Of course she won. He never had any doubt that she would take Olympos by storm. And he can’t _wait_ to hear about it. Starting his short journey back home, he finishes off his apple and tosses the core to a goat on the side of the road.

A shadow in his doorway gives him pause as he turns toward the house. Slowing, he reaches for the dagger tucked under his _chiton_ , his breathing slowing and his mind is a chant of _is it time, is this who the traitor-king has sent to take me out, who will tell Kassandra if I die here, in the middle of a forgotten town full of wheat and fucking goats--_

The figure turns and in the light he can see: it is only Myrrine. His heart stutters back to life in his chest and he exhales heavily. “Gods,” he mutters to her, rushing to open the door and usher her inside. “I think you shaved twenty years off my life.”

“I was going to wait for you at the _taverna_ , but someone’s been trying to tail me since I left Tegea,” Myrrine growls, pushing her _himation_ off of her head and sitting on a stool at his small kitchen table. “I lost them in the woods last night and haven’t seen them since, but I didn’t want to give them time to track me back down.”

She deflates as she sighs, exhaustion settling in. Brasidas quickly pours her a cup of water. Myrrine takes it and pulls a heavy, folded letter out of her sleeve, exchanging the _papyros_ for the water. “From Kassandra. I received mine as well. I’ll let you read it while I catch my breath.”

Taking the letter, he lowers himself onto a stool opposite of Myrrine. The seal is unbroken, and horribly off-center. It makes him smile. Popping the wax, he opens her letter and sighs, blinking at Kassandra’s messy scribbles.

“Reading her handwriting makes me second guess everything I learned as a child. Did I ever truly learn to read, or was it an illusion?” he smiles over the letter, receiving an answering huff of laughter from Myrrine, settling in to read it.  

It’s a quick rundown of Boeotia -- _Stentor is here. I ran into Nikolaos, which was interesting to say the least. He stopped Stentor from trying to kill me, so I guess I’ve used my fatherly affection token for the year. Boeotia has fallen, the Athenians are gone. If you’re talking to Archidamos -- sorry, “King” Archidamos -- tell him I did what he asked._

So much is left unsaid about Nikolaos and Stentor that he can imagine her hesitation in writing anything about it at all. She doesn’t know what that means, that Nikolaos came back to Sparta’s armies, to Stentor, even to her, to keep his step-son from trying to kill her.

 _Trying_ , Brasidas thinks, _because he would have failed._

She writes about the annoyance that is (was) Testikles, Sparta’s _pankration_ champion, and his fondness for oil and wine. And how that fondness, plus some ill-timed attempt at a hug, ended up getting him killed -- _An unfortunate turn of events, no matter how unpalatable that man was._ _Alkibiades was quick to put the champion title on me. I think he just wanted to see if he could beat me at something…and imagine the surprise when he did, at the foot-races. It was...fun, actually. Until the Cult ended up running the show -- I told you this would happen, back in Sparta! -- and Alkibiades nearly died from poison. But the rest of it...the tours with Herodotus and Barnabas. Those were nice--_ but that she had seen Sparta win in the end, like he knew she would.

And then, at the end: _I wish you had been there. It would have been nice to enjoy a moment not full of war, to bask in the so-called Olympic Treaty, and just enjoy a night together there. But I am done here and we head out in the morning. By the time you receive this letter, I should be only days away. Meet me at the Statue of Artemis in the Smuggler’s Forest._

He closes the letter with a deep breath and looks up at Myrrine across the table. She smiles gently at him, tilting her head. “She’s on the way. I figure we leave tonight, to get to the Smuggler’s Forest. Hopefully we don’t pick my tail back up.”

Clearing his throat, he nods and pushes away from the table. “Gives me enough time to give the keys back to this place. Ah, Myrrine--” he turns back and gestures at her: “Did you get my letter, then? About the...wheat issue?”

She presses her lips together and watches him for a moment, scrutinizing him, as if waiting for him to give something away. As if he’s hiding something from her, but he cannot figure out what it would be -- except the truth of his feelings for her daughter, but that isn't what's on trial in this moment.

Sighing, Myrrine leans forward with her elbows on the table. “Yes I did, and I think it’s best we have this conversation with Kassandra. I think you’re right though: your problem and mine are one and the same.” Pushing away from the table, she stands, wrapping her _himation_ around her head again. “Go, do what you need to do. I’ll meet you at the _taverna_ at sundown, and we can start our travels then. I’ll have horses. You just get food.”

With that, she sweeps out of his house, leaving the smell of her perfume and the taste of worry in his mouth.

* * *

 

That night, as the sun begins its slow decline behind the mountain range, Brasidas shuts the door to his rented house for the last time and meets Myrrine at the _taverna_ , shielded by the crowd and noise of bets being paid out over the Olympics, of _petteia_ games in the corner, and the general surge of wine and pleasantries exchanged after hours of labor out beneath the blazing sun.

They slip out of the town, unnoticed -- and, thankfully, untracked. Whoever is watching Myrrine seems to have moved on for the moment -- something that both worries and relieves Brasidas. Myrrine, too, if the way her gaze lingers into the darkness of the woods tells him anything. They keep quiet for the most part, both lost in their thoughts, trying to keep an ear out for any out-of-place sound that would alert them to impending ambush. But their horses are swift, the path clear, and it only takes them a day and a half to make it to the Smuggler’s Forest, outside of Tegea.

The Statue of Artemis juts proudly out of the ground, in a clearing covered in offerings to the goddess of the hunt. Out of habit, Brasidas bows his head as he crosses the threshold, offering a swift prayer as he has done to many statues of many gods all of his life.

Behind him, Myrrine stiffens and his head snaps up in time for him to catch a man wandering out from behind the statue, a grin on his face as he tosses his dagger up and catches it again. The blade spins in tight arcs through the air, catching the light as it filters through the leaves, yet he catches it by its handle every time.

Worry flashes through Brasidas in the half-second it takes to calm himself down-- _where is Kassandra, is she here, did he hurt her, are they here for me, does the traitor-king grow weary of waiting for battle to kill me._ He makes himself smile, spreading his hands out wide in a peaceful gesture. “ _Chaire_ , friend. Is there trouble in these parts?”

Myrrine shifts, slightly, covering her spear’s existence with her body, aiming to shrink herself into a frailer, older woman than she is. The mercenary glances over at her, but barely pays her any attention. Good.

“Just some mercenary business.” The man slips the dagger into its sheath and smiles at them both. “A large bounty, for the one they call the Eagle-Bearer. Any chance you two have seen her around? Rumor has it she’s on her way to Arkadia.”

The only noise for a moment is the blood rushing in his ears as he lets the words sink in. It has to be the Cult. They know she’s on her way, and they want to take her out--no, that doesn't make sense for them to kill her like this, with some random mercenaries to claim the honor. No, the Cult wants her for themselves, he's sure of it, and it makes his stomach drop, nausea bubble in his throat. Clearing his throat, he clasps his hands behind his back and shrugs, trying his hardest to remain nonchalant. When he asks how much the bounty is, the mercenary simply laughs.

“She’s killed men bigger than us,” he says, his grin too sharp to be friendly.

It doesn’t make sense, then, for him to want to fight her. Myrrine tries to point out the error in his words, but the man shrugs. The money, what these mysterious people are paying for her head, is worth just trying. He seems almost apologetic and it makes Brasidas want to stab the man and move on. Clearing his mind, his annoyance and anger with a deep breath and an idea comes to him--maybe he can even the odds a little, by making a deal with  _this_  mercenary.   

“I’ll double it,” Brasidas moves forward in a rush, his jaw clenching hard as he swallows. “For you to deliver a message to her instead. I’ll double whatever they are promising.”

He laughs again, then, when Brasidas’ fist tighten at his side, and Myrrine starts biting the inside of her lip ( _just like Kassandra,_ Brasidas thinks, _she looks just like Kassandra when she does that_ ), the mercenary stops and crosses his arms. He’s quiet for a moment, studying the two of them, and then shrugs and gives them the amount needed.

“I’m sorry, fifteen thousand _drachmae_?” Brasidas’ voice goes hoarse and he’s reaching for his coin purse and hoping to the gods he has even half of that. A hand on his stops him, and Myrrine tosses her coin purse at the mercenary, who catches it with a grunt.

“It’s there, though I understand if you want to count it.” She crosses her arms and stares at the other man flatly. The mercenary is staring at her, bewildered, and hefting the bag in his hand. With a twitch of his mouth, he shrugs, clips the bag to his belt and sticks his hand out for Brasidas’ hastily scrawled note.  _Meet us on the hill overlooking Tegea. Safer there._

As they leave the clearing, Myrrine sighs and reaches back for her spear, as if needing to feel the heft of it in her hand. He knows the feeling. “Brasidas, I don’t like this. Not one bit--where did you tell her to meet us?”

“Pan’s Cradle. Let’s get there and unpack and…” He drifts off, turning to spare an uneasy glance back at the mercenary. “Hope for the best.”

She tightens the grip on her spear, sharking her head. "I know why I was being followed, then. The  _kèpfos_ Cult knows where we are, where Kassandra is." She bites at the inside of her lip again and climbs back on her horse, sighing. "Let's go."


	2. 02

It’s early in the morning when he wakes from his dream--still dark, the sound of crickets and the flicker of fireflies still in the air. He can see through the open tent flap that the fire is low, but the small outline of Myrrine is cast in shadow, sitting watch beside it.

Sighing, he stares up at the roof of the tent, as his heart rate turns back to normal. Most of the dream isn’t new--always reaching for her, always touching _her_ \--but the ending has changed. Mercenaries, too many of them, overwhelming her, and he cannot ever seem to get there in time. Her blood on his hands. His words left unsaid. Her eyes glassy and sightless all because of a fucking bounty on her head that too many were eager to cash in on--

An eagle calls out above them and his heart stops. _Ikaros_. He’s stumbling to his feet and through the tent’s opening as Myrrine drops her spear with a clatter and rushes to embrace her daughter. He can hear the soft murmur of her voice as he watches her shadow pat Myrrine on the shoulder. Ikaros lands at the top of the tent beside Brasidas and chuffs at him.

His heart clenches in a way he hasn’t felt since the last time he saw her--it’s always been muted since her departure from Sparta, like it grew easier to miss her, to deal with the pain of loving her, when she wasn’t there in front of him--and his feet trip over the rocks in his hurry to reach her.

She’s beautiful, lit by the orange and red of the fire, her hair falling out of its braid, her armor bloody, Leonidas’ spear held loosely in her fingers. She’s exhausted, he can tell, but when she smiles at him, any worry he had before melts away.

“Are you okay?” He gestures at the blood on her cuirass, the spear, and she blinks as if just remembering her weapon. Sliding it into place at her quiver, Kassandra nods, stepping out of her mother’s embrace.

Her hand raises to his cheek, hesitating, before dropping down and shooting a quick side-glance at Myrrine. His heart, now firmly lodged in his throat, stops beating for a moment. Grabbing her hand as it falls, he pulls her to him and she kisses him, hard, her hand at his throat. His hands fly to her waist, holding her there, kissing her back until his vision swims before him.

Pulling away, he catches Myrrine’s small smile, the good-natured shake of her head as she pretends to be occupied. Moving his hands to Kassandra’s face, he takes stock of her for a long, quiet moment.

She’s really there, in front of him, her eyes unfocused with emotion and exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes, new scratches on her arms. Her armor is tarnished, dirty, bloody. Her hands tremble ever so slightly.

“Kassandra,” Myrrine whispers, reaching to touch her shoulder, stroke her braid. “You look dead on your feet. Go, lay down. We will reconvene when the sun is risen. I think we are safe enough here for now.”

Closing her eyes, Kassandra sighs, then nods, shuffling toward the tent where Ikaros chitters at her, concerned. Myrrine juts her chin out, motioning him to follow her daughter: “I will finish the watch. Find out what is wrong. She’s more likely to tell you than me, I think.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that information. She is her _mother_ . There’s no reason for Kassandra to trust him more with any part of her life. But he’s struck, by a memory of chosen families and dinner on the _Adrestia_ and how it was him chosen to be there, not Myrrine. He follows after Kassandra, slipping through the tent flap to find her trying to undo the belt of her plate armor and failing.

Falling onto his knees behind her, he covers her hands with his own, unclasping the belts and helping her pull the armor over her head. There’s no blood on her _chiton_ underneath, and it satisfies him: the blood on the armor is not hers. That’s all he needed to know, really.

“Your mercenary is dead,” her voice is hoarse as she turns her head to look at him. “I guess he decided to try for the Cult’s money too.”

She places a money pouch on the bedroll between them--Myrrine’s. Catching her hand before she can pull it away, he squeezes her fingers, rubbing his thumb over the dirt and blood stained at her nails. Her quietness unnerves him. “Is that all?”

Shrugging, she pulls her hand from his to shove through her hair, unwinding the leather cord and undoing her braid. Her hair falls around her shoulders in waves and fills the tent with the faint smell of sea-spray and sweat. “I’m tired.” She whispers, staring forward at the side of the tent. “It’s been...nonstop. Boeotia. Stentor and Nikolaos. The Olympics. Then I get here and find out there’s a bounty on my head so large I can’t seem to move two feet without someone wanting to sell me out to the fucking Cult for some _drachmae._ ‘More than you’d make in two years,’ the mercenary said.” She fiddles with her hair, combing fingers through knots and tangles. “Too bad we can’t fake my death, reap the rewards. Retire somewhere sunny.”

Her joke falls flat and when she breathes in, it’s shaky and she grits her teeth, the muscles in her jaw working hard. He longs to press his mouth there, to relax her, but he’s rooted to the spot, glued to the sound of her exhaustion, the strange longing in her voice. She turns to him, her eyes roaming his face--the gold is dulled by fatigue--before she leans forward and drops her head onto his shoulder. Jerkily, he raises his hands to comb through her hair, fiddle with the ends at her shoulders.

His lips ghost over the crown of her head and he pulls her onto the bedroll, moving down to undo her sandals, the belt at her waist, until she’s just in her _chiton_. He curls at her side, grabbing his heavy, woolen cloak to throw over them, his fingers curling at her shoulder. “Rest, Kassandra,” his whisper is broken, emotion tripping him up again. “For a few hours, we are safe.”

* * *

 

Morning comes all too soon, the rays of sun stretching through the flap of the tent, caressing Brasidas’ face with warmth until he gives in and opens his eyes. Kassandra is here still, pressed against his chest, turned toward him so her nose is pressed against his shoulder. She looks smaller, here, curling into herself and shivering slightly even under the woolen cloak.

“Kassandra,” he whispers, bending slightly to kiss her temple, her earlobe. “It’s morning.”

He watches her come to life in his arms--her eyes fluttering open, a deep inhale, the glance around as she remembers where she is, her soft smile as she focuses on his face. He pulls her up into his arms and she kisses him, soft, open-mouthed and full of a promise for _later._

They rise, dress quietly and he’s ecstatic to see the true shine of her eyes this morning when he helps to buckle her armor in place and then turns for her to do the same for him. Her hand lingers at his waist before she grins and pulls away to meet her mother and the morning.

Breakfast is quiet and simple--the wheat bread, apples and pomegranates Brasidas bought before leaving Lykosoura. Myrrine seems happier this morning now that her daughter isn’t dead on her feet, though a heaviness that he can’t quite pin down lingers on her face.

It comes to light when they’re done eating and Kassandra asks about her mother’s progress with the Cultist threat here in Arkadia. Setting her jaw, Myrrine glances at the small space between Brasidas and her daughter and sighs. “The archon here. He’s the Cultist.”

Kassandra nods, because why would she need to know who the archon of Arkadia is? Of course it’s the person in charge -- it always has been for her. But Brasidas is staring at Myrrine, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap and in his mind a dozen memories clash together.

_Countless days and nights spent training as children; working together to defeat the others, when it was every boy for himself; a single joyous moment as the warm rain pours down on them in a rare summer storm, washing away the blood and dirt of the day’s trials, of laughing as the drops plonked on their armor and their helmets, their faces._

_A battle for this very region, and Lagos’ definitive sword-swipe across a despot Athenian ruler’s throat, the spray of blood painting Brasidas’ feet. A promotion to Archon; handshakes and embraces as Brasidas returned to Sparta; the promise to keep in touch; a letter when he married, and another when his son was born, bidding him come visit when he has a chance--but he’d never made it back to Arkadia. Until now._

He’d always been too busy: always another mission, another region to spy on, to take. He’d last written Lagos after Methone, when the laurels had been placed on his head -- how many months ago was that?

Gods -- how many _years?_

He’s been too quiet. They’re staring at him, mother and daughter both, but his chest is tight and he is afraid to speak.

Kassandra’s face swims in his vision, her concern in every movement. Her hands cup his cheeks and she’s whispering his name and finally he blinks and shakes his head.

“No. It can’t be him,” voice cracking, he stares up at Myrrine--and for half a second he can see what looks like _regret_ on her face before the mask settles over and there’s nothing but the cold indifference of a woman who has been betrayed before and had to keep going. But Lagos isn’t Nikolaos and this isn’t Mount Taygetos. “He’s a farmer now, not a killer. Hasn’t been since--he’s a _good_ man.”

“Sparta is full of men who think they’re good,” Myrrine whispers, leaning forward to stare at him. “He is the Cultist in this region, Brasidas. He is taking wheat the Peloponnese. Sparta will starve without it, and they will not stand for it. They demand retribution, General. Arkadia is the breadbasket, and what he does with that wheat is anyone’s guess--destroys it? Gives it to Athens? Anything to help the war continue! Regardless it’s taken from Sparta and her soldiers. He needs to be taken out.”

Kassandra is staring between them, an expression on her face that he cannot read. Her gaze lingers on her mother for a moment before shaking her head as if to clear it. “What is your plan, _mater_?”

“Burn the wheat, cut the Cult where it will hurt.” Myrrine’s eyes flash. “Cut off the Archon’s head, stick it on a pike, send the puppet king a message.”

Brasidas feels nauseous and Kassandra’s fingers tighten on his arm for a second. She doesn’t say anything but he can imagine the look she’s giving her mother. Myrrine is nothing if not blunt.

Softly: “And your plan, Brasidas?”

“We free him from the Cult’s grasp. I refuse to believe he is doing this of his own accord. We investigate, find out what they have on him. We cannot just uproot the entirety of Arkadia, Kassandra--” he bolts upright, the need to move overwhelming him. “You said it yourself, Myrrine: we rely too heavily on the region for food, for the soldiers, for us at home. We need to do this smartly, quietly.”

Silence stretches between the three of them as Kassandra settles on the fallen tree they’ve been using as a bench. She stares at the fire, then out over the golden fields and shakes her head again. “We try to free him. If he is being manipulated, he deserves a chance to get away.”

Relief floods over him like he’s jumped into the spring that bubbles near the _syssiteia_ , where he has sank in relief after long days sparring. His blood rushes through his ears and he wants to grab her, kiss her, thank her. But he knows this will drive a wedge between mother and daughter, for now. And that this is a situation Kassandra had hoped to never be in, to never have to choose between her mother and her lover.

“You are letting your sentimentality cloud your judgement, Kassandra.” Myrrine hisses from across the fire. There’s fire in her eyes, anger and disappointment and Brasidas wants to leap up and shout at her.

 _How dare you,_ he’d yell. _As if you have any right to say any such thing to the woman you call daughter but barely know_.

He stays put though (thoughts like that are unsafe--he doesn't have any right himself, to call her out), watching the tension warp and snap between mother and daughter as if visible, tangible. Kassandra’s jaw tightens, the spot at the corner of her mouth pinched as she chews on the inside of her lip, fighting back words she knows she will regret in the aftermath.

“Time to get to work.” She stands abruptly, her voice leaving no room for argument.

* * *

 Brasidas learns of a safehouse, small and tucked on the outskirts of a sprawling wheat farm. He watches the house from the field, Kassandra crouching at his feet. She’s touching the stalks with such care and a tender look on her face he can’t place, and when she glances up, her cheeks turn pink.

He stoops down next to her, his fingers brushing against the blush across her cheeks, and tilts his head in a question.

“There’s just...so much of it. Kephallonia has shit soil for anything but hardy vegetables. I’ve never seen so much wheat in one place.” Snorting at herself she rolls her eyes. “I sound like a child--”

Cutting her off with a quick press of his lips to hers, he grins at her when he pulls back. “I love learning these things about you.”

He is _so close_ to saying what he truly means by that, but here, in a field when he is trying to prove his friend’s innocence, is not the place to make full declarations of love. Even if she looks at him like that: gentle, unsure. He clears his throat, and stands back up. “It’s there--across the field. I don’t see anyone there; I think the coast is clear.”

The house is small, ragged, completely unbefitting of an archon of one of the richest regions of Hellas...but that’s the point, isn’t it? That it doesn’t look like a place Lagos would use. There’s food on shelves in the small kitchen, a _kline_ in the even smaller bedroom, and the _andron--_ if you could call it that--is bare, tidy. Brasidas sighs in defeat.

“What were you hoping to find here?” Kassandra murmurs from behind him, slipping past to pick up a reed pen, to flip through a small stack of _papyros_ letters.

“Honestly? A large sign that says he’s being manipulated. Perhaps some letters painted across the walls: _Lagos is good, Lagos is innocent! Even the Cult cannot corrupt him!_ ” He braces himself against the small _trapezi_ in the room. “Kassandra, I know this isn’t him. This dishonor is _not_ him. He’s always done as much as he could to help his fellow brothers. Hell, I was stuck without food for my men and he rerouted supplies to get to me. He was a good soldier, but he was a better farmer, a better Archon. I want this to end without blood, for once.”

She turns to him, smoothing her hands over his hair, cupping his cheek when he leans into her. He hates how much he wants to toss this mission aside so he can re-acquaint himself with every inch of her body, the way every sigh and moan sound when they escape her lips. Pressing forward, he nudges her nose with his own, angling his head to kiss her and--

Freezing, she grips his shoulders and nods toward the door. “Someone is here.”

Of course. Scolding himself, Brasidas grabs his spear from where it leans against the _trapezi_ , and moves forward behind Kassandra, craning to listen.

 They speak of a letter, of dropping it off at a spot--the Scorched Tree. The voices fade as quickly as they rose and he turns his head to see Kassandra raising her brow at him. “I’ll go,” she murmurs. “I’ll see what I can find. You stay here, keep looking. When I get back, we need to find a new place to stay tonight. This place is obviously not very safe if the Cult comes by.”

He snorts a laugh and catches her hand, pulling her close for a kiss before she sprints out the door.

In the time Kassandra is gone, Brasidas goes through nearly every note left behind, every scrap of _papyros,_ every scroll and tablet. Nothing names the Cult outright, and he shouldn’t be surprised. Lagos isn’t a stupid man; he’d know to cover any proof of liaison with a code, with misdirection. But there’s not even that. Just ledgers of wheat sold to Sparta--the amount _without_ the missing shipments. In fact, no proof of any shipments gone at all. No information on where it goes, who has it.

Is he doing this all in his mind?

He must be. Lagos was always good at numbers, distances, equations. He’s obviously found more use for it here instead of the army.

The door creaks and he whirls, spear at the ready and nearly drops it when Kassandra throws her hands up to calm him. Behind him, a woman shakes, her dark eyes wide with terror, her clothes ragged. A slave, probably. But from where?

“She was taken with Lagos’ family.” Kassandra gestures at the woman. “But they kept her separate. She says they’ve got his wife and child underground, close to where the drop-off point was. I’m going back, but we need to find somewhere else to meet first.”

He moves his shield, places the notes back where they belong and settles the girl on the stool he’d pulled out before turning back to Kassandra. “Let me come with you,” he grasps her shoulder even as she shakes her head, “Kassandra, please.”

“I can free them from their captors, Brasidas, but I need you here. If something goes wrong--if I cannot protect them--I need to know that you will do so in my place.” She takes his hands in her own, squeezes. “Let’s concentrate on finding somewhere to go first.”

“There’s another safehouse. The archon’s wife asked me to set it up for her, before the guards came to watch her.” The slave girl pipes up from her spot on the stool. She wrings her hands in her lap, nervous even now. “It’s at the abandoned farm, south of the Armored Bird.”

A hike, but further away from Tegea. Further from the cult. Staring at Kassandra, he swallows hard and nods, giving in. “Fine. I’ll take--” he glances at the girl. “What was your name?”

“Euphro, sir.” She whispers.

“Alright. I’ll take Euphro and head for the farm. Meet us there when you get his family.” Scratching at his beard, he reaches out for Kassandra with his other hand, squeezing her hand. “You’d better be with them when they show up, Kassandra.”

“I will see you there, Brasidas.” She whispers, cupping his face and kissing him as if they were alone, as if they weren’t on the cusp of a dangerous night. “I promise.”


	3. 03

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the smut returns :)  
> chapter title from "a long & happy life" by delta rae  
> come check me out on tumblr, where i write smut a LOT. @[thatsouthernanthem>](thatsouthernanthem.tumblr.com)

The trek from Pan’s Cradle up toward the Armored Bird is a quiet one, and takes longer than Brasidas would like. Euphro has spent her life as the slave of the elite: her hardest labor for Lagos and his family was washing their clothes, probably. She’s thin (though not unfed or unhealthy, for which Brasidas is grateful. If he had seen signs of neglect and abuse, on Lagos’ housemaid, he would fear his friend truly gone), not used to hiking, and she stumbles every few steps on a loose rock.

He keeps her mind occupied, so she won’t get disheartened when she trips for the fourth time. “How does the archon’s family treat you?”

Euphro paints out her life with Lagos and his wife. Philonoe is kind, and has the softest hair, and one of her favorite jobs is to brush and braid it. The son, Niloxenos, she has taken care of since birth, his loyal nanny. Lagos is kind to her, though rarely needs her to do anything for him. Everything was ideal until his business partners decided to send guards to keep them “safe.”

“But they didn’t,” she mutters as she circumvents a large rock in the path. “They just scared Niloxenos, and then took us away in the middle of the night.”

They reach the abandoned farm and Brasidas checks it first, clearing out a small family of rabbits that somehow made their way inside. His stomach growls and he hesitates before chasing them out. No--no good to turn the _andron_ into a hunting ground. Euphro doesn’t look like she has the stomach for it. He’s still got an apple, a chunk of the bread and half a pomegranate. When Kassandra gets back, they’ll hunt.

Ushering the girl in, Brasidas locks the door behind them and uses a flint to light the braziers. He offers the bread and apple to Euphro and settles on a stool by the door, cloak wrapped tight around him.

He doesn’t like this--the waiting. He waited almost eleven months to see Kassandra again and now they’re separated for the second time in one day. Frustration has settled deep into every bone, tension winding him tight. He wants peace, calm, quiet. He wants the last ten months of doing next to nothing, but with her by his side, in that little farmhouse in Lykosoura. He wants--

The screech of an eagle makes him come back to the present, and Euphro jumps near out of her skin. He holds a hand up to placate her and, grabbing his spear just in case, moves to the door and opens it. Ikaros is sitting on the fence just outside, ruffling and picking at his feathers. Seeing him now, though, the mighty bird swoops forward and lands on Brasidas’ shoulder, preening and pecking at his hair.

“He’s hoping you have another pomegranate,” Kassandra calls from the walkway. She’s dusty, dirty, her _pteruges_ stained with blood; behind her follows a dark-haired woman and a child that looks strikingly similar to his old friend. Stopping in front of Brasidas, Kassandra reaches out to stroke Ikaros’ head. “He hasn’t forgotten the one in Sparta. Bugged me to buy them in Elis.”

Brasidas laughs, his shaking shoulders unnerving the eagle, sending him back to the fencepost to preen. When Kassandra turns to present mother and son, he bows, hand at his chest. “I am Brasidas of Sparta,” he tells them, looking them both in the eye (calm, like walking up to a wild animal, begging for trust). “I am a friend of Lagos.”

The woman watches him for a moment, then nods, some of her tension melting at his words. “I am Philonoe, his wife. I remember him writing to you when we married. When our son was born.” She pulls the child in front of her, out from behind her skirts. “This is Niloxenos.”

“My lady,” Euphro steps out of the open door, then drops to her knees and grips Niloxenos’ shoulders. “Niloxenos! You’re both okay, praise the gods!”

The child flings himself into Euphro’s arms and she cradles his small body against her. After a moment, the shock drops from Philonoe’s face and she bends down to engulf them both in a hug.

“Let’s go inside,” Kassandra murmurs, her hand stroking Niloxenos’ back. He turns to her and raises his arms, his trust in her already strong, resolute. With a smile, Kassandra hefts the boy up and settles him against her hip. “We’ll be safe inside, and you three can catch up while Brasidas and I find something to eat.”

She leads the way in, poking Niloxenos in the tummy and grinning when he laughs. The sight wraps its way around Brasidas’ heart and squeezes, threatening to stutter the life out of him. He doesn’t think of this often--a family of his own, a wife, a son, _happiness_ \--because he’s seen the difference in family between Sparta and the rest of Hellas. He loves Sparta, truly, he does, but the idea of fathering a son for duty, giving him to the state after only seven years, it hurts him.

_(He remembers an early campaign, one with Lagos at his side. He remembers watching a family on their farm as the soldiers around him set up camp. A mother, humming songs to her toddler daughter, and a father who played chase with his son. The love was palpable, even from where he stood rooted to the spot, unsure and frightened by the want in his heart. A glance at Lagos and the two turned away.)_

Philonoe and the others settle in, and Kassandra leaves her _xiphos_ with the other woman, just in case. “We won’t be far,” she smiles reassuringly at the women and boy. “Just on the property, I saw some deer wander through. But better to be safe.”

Once outside, Kassandra takes the bow from her back, runs her fingers over the string, reaches for an arrow--but Brasidas stops her. He takes her hand instead and pulls her to him, armor clashing together as he crowds her against the wall of the farmhouse, presses kisses to her lips, dragging his mouth to her neck. He’s tired of waiting, and right now they are safe. This night, they will be safe. There’s no one around for miles--he checked.

Her bow falls to the ground with a clatter so she can wrap her arms around his shoulders, hike herself up into his arms. Her legs wrap around his waist and he presses her into the wall. Their kisses turn sloppy and desperate as Brasidas tries to yank her smallclothes down to her knees and do the same to himself without dropping her.

“The wall,” he pants against her mouth, concern flooding him, “Is it too rough--”

The roll of her hips brings her cunt against his cock-- _warm, gods, wet, everything he’s been missing, fuck--_ and she nips at his lower lip, shaking her head. “No, no, just, hurry, come on--”

Pressing forward, he buries himself in her, groaning into her kiss at the feel of her around him. She’s so wet, so warm, it’s a feat that he doesn’t come immediately. He stills, pulling his mouth away from hers to swear into her shoulder. “It’s been,” he swallows hard, trying to focus. “Far too long, Kassandra.”

Her answer is a soft press of her hips, a gentle moan falling from her lips. Her hands in his hair, her cheeks flushed. “I know, I know. Just fuck me already, Brasidas.”

Her whispers trail off into a whine when he gathers his strength and snaps his hips into her, pressing her harder into the wall, the rocky surface crumbling from age onto the shoulders of her armor, her _chiton._ It’s fast, just the slap of skin on skin, her wrapped around him, her tight heat enveloping his cock and he knows he’s going to lose it soon.

It’s like she reads his mind as he’s trying to figure out how to balance her and reach a hand between them at the same time. She does it for him, one arm wrapped around his shoulder, her fingers tight in his braid; the other snaking down her body and under her _pteruges_ and _chiton_ , stroking herself to completion. When she comes, she bites down on her lip, smothering the moan that would surely be heard inside. Her muscles spasm around him, and take him over the edge and he spills inside of her.

Panting, he sets her down after a moment, his forehead pressing against hers, leaning into her, kissing her. “That’s hardly how I wanted that reunion to go.”

Kassandra grins against his lips before bending down to retrieve her smalls, tugging them back over her hips. Once he’s done the same, she kisses him again, mouth angled under his and tucked into his side. “I can’t wait,” she whispers, lips grazing his, “to be back in your bed, in Sparta, after this is all over. I think we deserve another break, don’t you?”

Pulling away, she grabs the bow from the ground, dusting it off. “Now,” she smiles over at him. “I promised a little boy I’d bring him venison for dinner. Let me show you how the rest of Hellas hunts, Spartan.”

Barking a laugh into the night, he gestures with a bow for her to lead the way. Above them, Ikaros cries, circling where the deer were earlier and seem to be once more. “Hardly fair,” he whispers as they creep closer to the animals. “To have a bird who does all the searching for you.”

Rolling her eyes, Kassandra notches an arrow and he’s forced to watch her. The muscles in her arms bunch, selectively, as if she is choosing exactly which ones to use. Her eyes are narrowed, focused and her breathing is steady. She raises her elbow to her ear, a deep breath in, then out and the arrow is loosed--

The deer falls with barely a grunt; shot through the head, split the skull, clean. It never even knew its end was near. The other deer take off running, disappearing into the night. Brasidas whistles as they step up to the felled animal, his hands on his hips. “Excellent shot, Kassandra.”

She straightens at his words, pride flashing in her eyes and he almost tells her then, but the words stick in his throat.

* * *

 

Niloxenos claps his hands in glee at the dinner the deer provides. He eats like he’s starving, and though the Cult doesn’t seem to have kept any comfort from them, a cage is still a cage and terror is a great way to curb appetites.

Philonoe and Euphro eat no less, but with better manners--though Brasidas couldn’t care--and Kassandra eats like Niloxenos: messily, fingers dredging the last of any liquid left in her bowl, like she has never eaten in her life.

“Where shall we go?” Philonoe asks later, stroking her son’s hair as he lays his head in her lap. “Will there be anywhere safe that the Cult cannot reach us? That Lagos can still find us, after?”

Brasidas sighs, looking down at the spear in his hands, the rasp he uses stilling at the blade. He has thought about this almost nonstop since Kassandra left to get them. The Cult is all-seeing, they claim, and he’s inclined to believe it at the moment--he has seen for himself where the tendrils dig in deep: in the Monger, in Sparta’s traitor, in Kassandra’s tales of a corrupted Olympics and now Lagos. Where else do they sink their claws in? If Kassandra and Myrrine are to be believed (and he has no reason to _not_ believe them), they cast their shadow over all of Hellas. Far-reaching; no stone left unturned by their hands.

“Kephallonia.” Kassandra murmurs from her seat at Brasidas’ feet. She holds an oilcloth in one hand, the spear of Leonidas in the other, but her attention is solely on Philonoe now. “They won’t have reason to go back there. I was the only resident of any mention...and once the Cyclops was removed, more people left eventually. They won’t go there again; it’d be silly. Especially if you keep a low profile.”

“The lowest,” Philonoe promises with a tired smile. “I have some _drachmae_ that I grabbed from the cave. Some trinkets as well. I can sell them for passage on a ship--”

“Passage is no problem,” Kassandra interrupts, running the oilcloth over the speartip. She’s chewing on her lip, lost in thought, nodding when she comes to a conclusion of some sort in her mind. “But...what kind of trinkets do you have?”

Philonoe describes the things she grabbed--jewelry, hair pieces, inconsequential things the Cult thought would make her more _“comfortable,”_ as if those items somehow changed the fact she had been in a cage. Kassandra nods at the descriptions and sets her spear to the side to lean forward onto her knees.

“I can take them to the _agora_ ,” she murmurs, reaching out to fiddle with the thin, roughspun blanket covering Niloxenos’ legs. “Sell them for you, so you’ll have something to start with in Kephallonia. I’ll take care of it in the morning."

* * *

Eventually, Philonoe picks her son up and carries him into the larger bedroom upstairs, where Euphro already rests. She lays him down and squeezes in next to him, no doubt dreaming of waking up on a ship bound for a tiny island north of here.

Downstairs, Brasidas has put away his rasp and set the spear by his shield and wrapped himself in his cloak. His eyes close, just for a moment, lulled by the darkness outside and the crackle of fire in front of him.

Kassandra is silent as she drops into his lap and he jumps out of the doze, his hands reaching for her leg as he blinks up at her. She grins widely and leans forward to kiss him. “Scared you.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and he doesn’t dignify it with an answer. Instead he slides his fingers under the edge of her _chiton_ and notices the top half of her armor is across the room, stacked by her weapons. He finds it highly unfair, as the top of his armor pinches, a cuirass he hasn’t used in a long while, while his other dries.

He moves her off of him, reaching for the ties and buckles that keep the armor in places, tugging it off and setting it beside the stool. Stretching, his joints pop back into place, a deeply satisfying feeling.

Kassandra is on him before he can turn back to her, hands skimming up the backs of his thighs as she kneels to the ground in front of him. He stops her, tangling his hand in her braid, cupping her face to draw her back up to him. “Not here,” he murmurs, his hands spanning her hips, enjoying the feel of her. “The spare room, in the back.”

It’s close enough that should something happen, they’ll be right there. It’s probably not his smartest idea, to have sex in a safehouse when they are the watch guards, but he’s not thinking entirely clearly right now. He grabs his spear and hers, setting them inside the door of the spare room, just in case.

She’s right behind him, undoing the belt of his _pteruges_ to sweep it off and to the side as he turns around to face her. Pressing him back against the mattress, she slides down his legs, settling between them on her knees. Her nails scratch at his thighs, drawing a thin hiss from him. Blinking up at him from under her lashes, she smiles wickedly. “I have thought about you--about _this_ \--nonstop since I left Sparta.”

He shifts under her gaze as her hand trails further up his thigh, and his cock twitches to life. She continues speaking as if commenting on the weather:

“Lonely nights in a war tent in Boeotia, on the _Adrestia_ , in Elis. Wishing you were there beside me, so I could touch you.”

Her fingers slide into the fabric of his smalls, tugging them down his legs to free him from the confines of cloth. Her hand is there immediately, wrapping around the half-hard girth of him, stroking him to fullness, her voice husky and hoarse. “So you could touch me. I had to make do, but I thought about this very moment all the time.”

She presses forward and takes him into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the head before working her way down his shaft, taking in as much of him as she can. His chest clenches and he braces himself with his feet on the ground, his hand in her hair, muttering curses into the air.

Pulling back, she wraps her hand around him again, smiling up at him. With her free hand, she pushes at his _chiton_ and he helps her remove it, leaving him bare before her. He shivers as she laps at his cock again, swirling her tongue and pressing forward to take in every inch; her other hand slides up his stomach, fingers splayed at his sternum, feeling the beat of his heart.

His thighs tremble with how hard he’s planted himself against the floor, bracing against the onslaught of her mouth. He groans, hand pushing her hair out of her face, curling fingers into the strands that have worked their way out of her braid. Each swipe of her tongue, each pass of her mouth over him, sparks a flame at the base of his spine, and deep in his belly.

If he lets her continue, he knows it will be over before he’s ready and he doesn’t want a repeat of earlier--he wants to savor her, enjoy every second spent in the valleys of her body. He slides his hands from her hair, to under her arms, tugging at her. She lets his cock fall from her mouth with a whine that nearly wrecks him but he stays resolute, pulling her to lay on the bed beside him.

Her lips are red and spit-slick as he traces the shape of them with his thumb. He takes his time taking her clothes off, covering her body with his own. He strokes the length of her thigh with a feather-light touch, grinning into her shoulder when she shivers and lets her leg fall open for him.

Brasidas slips a thumb along the scar he’s spent so much time learning under her hip bone, reacquainting himself with the jagged line there, scooting down to lave the mark with his tongue. The scent of her fills his senses, here, so close. He scrapes his teeth against the scar, and she arches her hips, groaning above him, her hand falling to his hair as he sucks a red mark into her skin.

Shifting back up, he kisses her, slow and long, sliding his tongue along hers as his thumb circles her clit, his fingers press up inside of her, curling, seeking. She groans into his mouth, her hands clutching at his neck, his face, fingers sliding into his beard, holding him closer. He curls his fingers again, sharply, just to capture another wail with his lips.

He quickens his pace and she grabs at his shoulders. Pulling away from his mouth with a gasp, she pants in his ear as she rolls her hips, working herself on his fingers—and he thinks his chest might burst from the sight. Inhaling sharply at her shoulder, he worries a spot red with teeth and suction at the pulse in her neck. Another sharp twist of his fingers has her crying out, shoving her hand up to her mouth to stifle the noise as she comes, pulsing, muscles clamping down around his fingers.

Her thighs tremble as he drags his fingers out, wet with her slick, as he presses open mouthed kisses along her collarbone, her sternum. He scrapes his teeth against the tight bud of her nipple just to hear her sigh a high noise into her arm. Sitting back on his knees, he turns her--warm and languid, hazy eyed and bruised lips--onto her stomach, and she follows his silent commands, rising on her knees, her elbows and she glances back over her shoulder and grins, wiggling at him.

Groaning, he leans over her body, dropping kisses to the back of her neck, shoulders, counting freckles and tiny scars here and there as she presses her hips against his, rubbing his cock with her ass. Breath hitching, he grips her hip, reaching between them to guide himself into her.

She’s _so wet_ , ready for him, and the noise of low, deep satisfaction that she makes as he fills her sends electricity down his spine. Her fingers twist in the _stromata_ under them as she pushes back against his thrusts, skin slapping as they move together. He’s not going to last much longer, not when this position makes her feel tighter, taut around him, against him.

Gripping her shoulders, he pulls her up to him, arm wrapping around her chest to keep her steady. Her head falls back onto his shoulder, her hands scrabbling for purchase at his side, his neck as his free hand slides down her body to her clit, circling, rubbing. She curses as he thrusts up into her, her hand falling from his side to hold onto his wrist. She tries to curl inward but his arm holds her tight against his chest, his head dropping forward into the curve of her shoulder, licking and biting at the skin there.

Kassandra whimpers as she presses her mouth against his arm, eyes squeezed shut as she trembles beneath him, her cunt spasming around him as she nears orgasm once more. She’s mumbling words against his arm, things he can’t hear or decipher, but knowing her, it’s curses and soft affirmations.

He licks the shell of her ear, feeling her shudder against him, his thrusts slowing to deep, strong motions instead of the quick snap of his hips from earlier. She leans against his shoulder again, her mouth open, panting, whining.

“You are so _fucking beautiful_ , Kassandra,” he growls into her ear, his fingers quickening at her clit, his other arm tugging her tighter against him. She whimpers again, her hands going to the arm across her chest, holding on. “Always, but like this--”

He accentuates his words with another thrust up into her, another pass of his fingers and she breaks--stiffening in his embrace, biting down on the arm in front of her to hide the wail that rips from her throat. He holds her back against him still, roughly slamming his hips up one last time before emptying himself in her.

He slides his hands to her hips, easing her forward as he thrusts a few more times, softer, almost as a reflex. She’s shaking as she leans into the mattress, as he pulls out of her and presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Are you--”

Kassandra cuts him off when she rolls over and tugs him into a fierce kiss; all tongue and teeth clashing, bruising lips--claiming. When she pulls back, her eyes look unfocused, hazy, the black still nearly eclipsing the gold. He strokes a thumb along her cheek and she leans into it, smiling softly. “I am fine. Better than.” She hesitates, then strokes his beard and whispers: “I’ve missed you, Brasidas.”

His heart swells as his chest clenches and he knows that the feelings that blossomed in Sparta haven’t faded; they are just as strong now as they were then, or perhaps even strengthened by distance and time. He presses a kiss to the scar at her nose, the one on her lip, drawing a soft laugh from her. “I missed you too, Kassandra.”

She curls into his side, shivering slightly and grabbing the thin _stromata_ from under them to pull over their bodies. “We have to get up soon--we need to get ready for the morning.” Her voice sounds small. “But we can stay here for a moment more?”

“Of course.” He wraps his arms around her, holding on. Kassandra’s breathing eventually slows, and he knows she’s dozed off and he lets her. She deserves any rest and relaxation she can get, after all. Looking down at her, he can count the freckles on her cheeks, admire the way her lashes fan out against her skin, and softly, so quiet that he can barely hear himself say it, he whispers: “I love you, Kassandra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he said it?? it's the thought that counts, right?


	4. 04

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut free, but hopefully you still enjoy the plot :P

The morning comes, and with it, Kassandra bringing back a purse full of _drachmae_ for Philonoe, and honey-soaked bread for Niloxenos. She crouches next to the boy with a grin, happily playing a game of knucklebones as Brasidas saddles horses and secures bags. Their laughter rings out in the early morning dew and haze, bringing smiles to everyone’s tired faces.

Philonoe climbs astride the horse, Euphro on one beside her, and Kassandra lifts Niloxenos to sit in front of his mother. Brasidas stows their extra gear on the back of his horse as Kassandra mounts Phobos; then, as a group they ride for the Phigaleia fishing port, where Barnabas and Herodotus wait--and close to Fort Samikon, where Lagos is.

The journey takes most of the day but no matter how much quicker he and Kassandra could have traveled, it is worth it to see the family Lagos has, and learn more about what his old friend has been doing since he last saw him.

He’s grown chubby, Philonoe says with a fond smile. The comfort of marriage and a child, less need to impress others. He has changed, Brasidas realizes, his thoughts tripping to catch up with the world around him. The man he remembers, the man he pictures in his mind, is not the one standing victorious over a dead Athenian archon years ago. Lagos has grown softer, it seems, more content--happy, even, with his family. Would Brasidas remember him? Would Sparta?

Niloxenos tells them of how his _pater_ is a prodigy with memorization, with numbers. These are things Brasidas has known since he was a boy, since he first met Lagos, but to hear it from the viewpoint of a child, of a son admiring his father, it is wonderful to learn about all over again.

He tells them of the time he and his men were stuck, without food, on a campaign, after the supply lines had been struck. How Lagos had diverted food to him so cunningly, so quickly, his suppliers disguised as farm hands carrying their day’s harvest in baskets and packs so the enemy would leave them alone--and it had worked.

Niloxenos claps his small hands when Brasidas finishes, grinning toothily at him and just happy to hear a fond story of his _pater_ from another. Kassandra catches his eye from across the path and smiles softly at him.

When they stop to water the horses and let Niloxenos run off his energy, Kassandra grips Brasidas’ arm and squeezes. “Lagos sounds like an excellent man. A kind, loving father and husband. I am certain he is not part of the Cult willingly, Brasidas.” She hesitates, glancing around before cupping his cheek. “I just want you to know that. I believe you.”

He knows she wouldn’t be here, doing this, if she didn’t believe him--lovers or not--but still, hearing her say the words makes his heart soar and he leans forward, uncaring of their audience, and kisses her softly. Niloxenos makes gagging noises in the background, making Kassandra grin against Brasidas’ lips.

“One day,” she says as she later hauls the child back into his mother’s lap atop their horse. “One day you’ll find a love like your _mater_ and _pater_ , and kissing won’t be so gross anymore.”

They make it to the _Adrestia_ by nightfall, where Lagos’ family will wait for him before taking a different ship to Kephallonia; Barnabas knows many captains and has secured passage for them with one he trusts--a longtime friend, it seems, from back when Hellas was united in resistance against the Persians--as soon as they’re ready. Tonight, though, Philonoe, Niloxenos and Euphro will stay aboard Kassandra’s ship, for safety.

Herodotos claps Brasidas on the back and Barnabas gives him a jaunty wave from where he sits on the bench with Niloxenos, regaling the child with his tales of the cyclops. “Good to see you again, General.”

“And you, Herodotos. Please, Brasidas is fine,” he rubs the back of his neck, unsure of what to say, what to ask, when Kassandra appears behind Herodotos, drawing him into a hug.

“We will be back. It’s best to go ahead and go to Fort Samikon while most of the soldiers there will be sleeping. Tell Barnabas to have his friend ready to go as soon as we are back.”

“Of course, my dear. Be safe.” Herodotos grips Kassandra’s hands tightly before letting her go. “Both of you, be safe.”

* * *

 

Overlooking the bay, Fort Samikon rises up on the hill, large and daunting, a specter over the village below. And somewhere in that fort is Brasidas’ closest childhood friend .

Memories crowd to the front of his mind, tripping over one another, bleeding into each other with every step closer to the building. Memories of huddling together in the cold as nine year olds, having to steal and fight for scraps of food to survive until the next day--

\--sparring in the heat of summer, as the generals barked orders at them-- _feet apart, soldier; hold that spear up! Your shield--fucking use it!--_ the clash of weapons until Lagos swept his spear under Brasidas’ feet, knocking him to the ground, his face hot with embarrassment and--

\--the warmth of his friendship, his caring as they moved on from the _agoge_ , into the barracks, into campaigns. A steady and strong relationship that Brasidas knew he’d always be able to fall back on, that Lagos would always have his back.

He hopes Lagos has his back now.

Kassandra scales the side of the mountain, leaving him alone with his thoughts as she looks for a way in. Above, Ikaros screeches--he’s seen Lagos. Brasidas doesn’t know _how_ the eagle and _misthios_ communicate, but he’s thankful they do. She drops back down beside him and paints a picture for him: a broken part of the wall, the building Lagos is in just meters away from it. Two guards at the door, but bushes all along the side of the building.

“We ki--we knock them out,” she amends mid-sentence. Whatever is happening here, those soldiers are sons of Sparta and he appreciates her ability to change her plan to suit his needs. Killing would be safer, in the long run, as those men will certainly wake back up, but he hopes for less bloodshed.

_(I’ve seen enough bloodshed for two lifetimes, he’d sighed, hands on his hips as he’d watched her._

_You’re going soft, she had whispered, grinning and reaching over to pat his belly and he had grabbed her hand and kissed her against the wall, before she pulled away, her laughter washing over him.)_

Clearing her throat, she returns to her plan. “We knock them out, hide them in the bushes--then we go for Lagos. I know you want to talk, but let me do so first, then he’s all yours. Hopefully he’s quick about it and we can get out of there and back to the _Adrestia_ before anyone wakes up.”

Nodding, he straightens and follows her up a craggy path, with minimal wall-scaling. They drop into some tall grass after vaulting over the destroyed wall, Brasidas’ sharp eyes keeping an eye on the soldiers standing guard.

They seem to be relaxed, tired even. Ready for their turn to sleep as all young soldiers often are. Brasidas points to the one on the left, the one closest to them, knowing Kassandra can make it further without being seen.

For a _misthios_ , she manages to be an assassin pretty easily. She darts behind the building, crossing the short distance to pop up behind the guard, hand muffling his cry of shock as she cuts off his air supply and lays him gently in the bushes behind her. Brasidas finishes doing the same to his guard, and as one they turn to the door before them.

His nerves skyrocket. His mouth is suddenly cotton-dry and he can’t swallow. This moment could ruin everything he’s known.

Kassandra pushes the door open and there he is. He’s still as tall as he was when he last saw him, but Philonoe was right--he’s gained some weight. His beard is full, thick, he looks healthy, and his face still looks kind, all things Brasidas is thankful for.

Lagos turns to look at his intruders and while he glances at Kassandra with no surprise, he freezes for a moment when he sees Brasidas standing before him. Clearing his throat, he folds his hands behind his back and nods at Kassandra. “I figured the Eagle Bearer would come for me. The members of the Cult seem to be thinning at your hand. But, Brasidas,” he grins (and again, a dozen memories tripping over themselves--grins shared, hands touched, spars won), hands reaching out toward him, “It is wonderful to see you again, my friend.”

Kassandra steps to the side, watching Lagos like a lioness stalking her prey--eyes flicking over each of them, keeping tabs on weapons, hands, steps taken--as Brasidas moves forward into the embrace of his oldest friend. Lagos claps him on the back, pulling back to look at his face. A second passes, then Lagos pats Brasidas on the side of the neck and steps back, turning to Kassandra.

“I knew you’d come find me, sooner or later.” He bows his head at her and Brasidas notices for the first time that the customary Spartan braid is missing from Lagos’ head. It makes sense, he knows, for him to have adopted the styles of Arkadia instead, but it hits him hard for a moment. So much stays the same even as so much changes--looking at him, Brasidas sees his closest friend from years past, a man he once knew so well, but also a stranger in his gained weight, in his loose hair, the lines around his eyes.

“I know it was you who freed my family. They’re safe, thanks to you.” Lagos bows fully and Kassandra shifts uncomfortably at his politeness.

She wants him to be louder, angrier, meaner, like all of the other Cultists, Brasidas can tell. It’s in the way she rolls her shoulders, her neck; the pinch of skin at the corner of her mouth from chewing on the inside of her lip. She shrugs, grimacing. “I did what I had to. They were in trouble; the Cult was involved,” with a wave of her hand, she shrugs again. “It was a simple decision.”

Lagos hums, going to his desk which is cluttered with scrolls, maps, and diagrams. He flips through the palimpsests, stroking his beard before looking back up at Kassandra. “I am willing to hear what you have to say. I only want what is best for Arkadia.”

It’s jarring to hear, for Lagos is still an agent of Sparta, officially the archon because of Sparta, for Sparta--yet Lagos’ loyalties seem to lie in Arkadia, where he considers home. Glancing over, he sees Kassandra looking at him, drawing him out of his reverie, nodding her head at Lagos, urging him to speak. He realizes, now, he hasn’t said a word since coming into the building. Clearing his throat, he reaches out toward his friend. “Come with us, Lagos. We can get you out of here, away from the Cult. We have a ship, your wife and son. Come _with us._ ”

Lagos turns, studying him for a long moment and Brasidas feels adrift in memories once more. Standing near this very fort, years and years ago, looking at each other for the last time. A heaviness is on his shoulders, fear that he won’t be able to bring Lagos back into the fold, making his heart quicken with panic. Clearing his throat, Lagos murmurs: “You, I trust, Brasidas. Your companion has become famous to the Cult for cutting off the heads. How do I know she won’t change her mind?”

Kassandra pushes off of the wall she’s leaned on, stepping forward like a blaze, a flame, all annoyance and frustration at being called out for something she wouldn’t do, her pent-up energy at Lagos’ unending politeness boiling over. Even now, with accusations thrown at her, they’re said so plainly, so calmly, she falters in her anger. He wants to placate her, hold his hands at her arms and squeeze, murmur that Lagos doesn’t know her as he does, but he stays still, watching her. “We can work together against our common enemy,” she grits her teeth, regaining her calm. “You deserve better--your _family_ deserves better--than to live under the threat of the Cult.”

He smiles softly, reaching out to clutch at Brasidas’ shoulder, squeezing: “You sound like this one did, when he was your age.” Turning back to his desk, he shuffles through some of the papers, stopping when he finds what looks like some letters and hands it to Kassandra. “Correspondence, to and from. Be warned, Eagle Bearer, you’ve made an enemy of a king.”

Kassandra inhales sharply as Brasidas stiffens. She presses forward, excitement radiating off of her as she whispers: “Who is it, Lagos? _Please._ ”

“Pausanias threatened my family with torture and bodily harm if I ever betrayed him,” Lagos murmurs, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a heavy golden ring, garnet set in the center. “I hope you can use this somehow.”

Silence stretches between the trio, and he feels as if the ground could open up and swallow Brasidas whole. Pausanias, a man he has fought beside, a man he has trusted at his back, is a Cultist, selling Sparta to the highest bidder. How long? How long has he served the Cult and not Sparta? How long has _Brasidas_ served them by following orders? He feels sick to his stomach, anger churning deep inside of him. His fists clench, his jaw tightens and--

Her hand is cool, smooth on the exposed skin of his arm above his bracers. It’s a quick touch, just a flutter of her fingers really, but it brings him back into himself, for now. The two in this room do not deserve his anger, and Pausanias will get his in time. For now, Brasidas gestures at Lagos’ desk. “Pack what you need and let’s go. We need to get you to the fishing village.”

As he carefully places things in his bags, Lagos glances at the space (smaller, now, than when they first entered; they keep gravitating toward each other) between Kassandra and Brasidas. “Where will we go? I imagine there are few places safe from the Cult.”

Kassandra leaves Brasidas to fill the Archon on their plan, on Kephallonia. As he tells him that there’s no reason for the Cult to return there, she is staring at a panel painting leaning up against the wall. Philonoe’s soulful eyes stare back at her, and Niloxenos is an infant, tiny and round in his mother’s arms, Lagos behind them, his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Brasidas watches as Kassandra strokes the painted cheek of Niloxenos, a soft, foreign smile playing on her lips.

He forces himself to look away, concentrating instead on watching Lagos place a final stack of papers on top of clothing in his bag. Lagos hesitates, then turns toward them: “There needs to be a body, right? A murder scene, so they won’t question you?”

Brasidas starts at the question--why hadn’t he thought of that? How would they pull this off--but Kassandra just nods smoothly, adjusting the bracer on her left arm. She’s silent for a moment, eyes flickering over the painting in front of her again, then she nods once more. “There’s a guard we knocked out, at the entrance. He’s roughly your height. It won’t trick the Cult, but you’ll be long gone...and the Kings--”

“Have not seen me in years.” Lagos finishes, flashing a quick smile at Kassandra, who gives him a tight one in return. She doesn’t trust him still, Brasidas realizes with a sinking feeling in his stomach--but she smiles brighter at him when he catches her eye and it suddenly doesn’t matter because she, at the very least, trusts Brasidas.

Still, something bothers him. Needless bloodshed, mostly. “So we are killing one of the guards? There’s no other way? Animal blood?”

Kassandra shakes her head, sliding her spear out from its leather bindings on her back. “We’d have to leave and find the animal, then spread its blood everywhere and we’d still need a body, Brasidas.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Lagos murmurs, gently, “The guards posted outside of here are Cultist guards. They do not serve Sparta; they are no one you know.”

In the end, it does help--the bloodshed isn’t needless, then, if they’re wiping out the true enemy and not his own brothers--and Kassandra handles the execution with a quick slice of her spear over the man’s throat, quickly dragging him back inside.

They remove the man’s bulky armor and dress him in a spare _chiton_ of Lagos’. Standing over the body, Kassandra does another quick slash from belly to throat, tearing through the fabric, spilling blood and guts to the floor and hopefully keeping anyone from looking too closely.

“No one wants to get in close to that,” she murmurs, moving to knock over piles of papers and knick knacks, imitating a struggle. She jerks her chin at the discarded Cultist armor. “Lagos, you should put that on. They won’t look twice at you leaving, while we sneak out.”

Sighing, Lagos nods and sets his bags down, reaching to pull the draped _himation_ off of him. “It smells like a pigsty in this armor.”

“Remember when we used the training armor?” Brasidas murmurs, shooting a quick grin over his shoulder as he fumbles in his _pharmaka_ bag for a sprig of dill, and thin strips of cloth. “They’d have us stick dill pouches in our noses?”

“To keep us from vomiting, yes.” Lagos laughs and takes the little bundles from Brasidas and sticks them in his nose. He looks ridiculous and even Kassandra cannot hold back her quick bark of laughter. Lagos nods at them both, then sticks the helmet on and grabs one of his bags, with Brasidas taking the other.

“Onward,” Kassandra half-smiles, though it is sharp and humorless. “Onward and ever forward.”

* * *

 

Seagulls scream overhead as the sun begins its slow climb over the bay. Glancing at Kassandra, Brasidas is struck with how exhausted she looks again. It’s been a full day since they left the safe house, and with the traveling and the revelations, it seems to have taken a lot out of her. Recalling her words about deserving a break, he can’t agree more.

Ikaros calls out as they climb up the plank to the _Adrestia_ ’s deck, settling above them, high on the mast. Niloxenos jumps off the bench with a cry of _papa_ , and bolts for his father, throwing his arms around his neck as Lagos bends to catch him. Philonoe’s hands shake as she reaches for them both and Brasidas suddenly becomes very interested in the grain of the wood on the railing under his hand.

“Kassandra!” Myrrine’s voice rings clear in the quiet morning, pressing herself forward between Herodotos and Barnabas, reaching for her daughter, gathering her into a hug. He’s suddenly struck by the two Spartan parents in front of him, and the similarities in their decidedly un-Spartan love for their children, their families. Kassandra drops her head onto her mother’s shoulder, letting the older woman stroke her hair for a long moment before she pulls back, grabbing Barnabas’ arm and tugging him to the side.

Soon after they return to the group, Brasidas gathers Lagos and his family and begins to move them quietly to a new boat. A middle-aged woman greets them there, standing with her arms crossed, a grin wide on her face. She and Barnabas shake hands, talk quietly about routes and safety--what the Cult’s colors look like, how to avoid them--as Kassandra bends down in front of Niloxenos and hands him a small wooden eagle, small enough to fit in the boy’s palm.

“For you to remember me by.” She smiles at him, reaching out to stroke his cheek like she did the painting. “Thank you, Niloxenos, for being my friend. Even for a short while.”

The child throws his arms around Kassandra’s neck, sobbing his farewells into her shoulder as she rubs his back. Lagos stares at them, dumbfounded at the famed _misthios_ comforting his son.

“They became fast friends on the journey from the cave,” Philonoe murmurs, stepping away from her husband to begin the process of pulling the child off his newest friend.

Lagos turns to Brasidas, gratitude written plainly on his face. He reaches out and cups the back of Brasidas’ head, pressing his forehead against his, then pulling him into a one-armed hug around the shoulders. “It was good to see you again, my friend, no matter how short the visit. We will write to you, once we have settled in Kephallonia. Encoded, of course.”

He embraces him again before stepping back, taking his bags and ushering his wife and son up the plank. Barnabas comes up beside Kassandra, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and glancing back at Brasidas.

“They’ll be fine. Oitane and I go way back! All the way back to my time with the Athenian army! She will get them to Kephallonia safe and sound, gods willing!” He squeezes Kassandra’s shoulder before beginning his walk back to the _Adrestia_. “We leave at your leisure, Captain!”

Hands behind his back, Brasidas steps up behind her, watching as Niloxenos continues to wave to Kassandra, his fist tight around the wooden toy she gave him. “When did you pick that eagle up?”

“I’ve had it,” she whispers, waving back at the little boy. “I bought it a long time ago, from a very odd merchant in Kirrha, for a friend. But Niloxenos is just as worthy of it.”

She rubs at her nose for a second, as if it was tickled, and he watches her closely, certain he’d see tears welling up in her eyes when she looks back to him, but they’re dry, if not sad. He reaches for her hand, squeezing it. “Thank you,” he murmurs lowly, tugging on her hand to get her to look at him. “For saving him. I know you had misgivings--”

“I trust you,” Kassandra interrupts, her thumb sweeping over the back of his hand. “He was unwillingly a part of the cult. He didn’t deserve death.”

She turns back to watch the ship leaving and Brasidas can barely see Niloxenos now--just a small speck beside the larger one that is Lagos. Voice soft, Kassandra leans into him with her shoulder. “I truly doubt he’d sit back and watch them torture a child if they hadn’t had their knives against _his_ child’s throat. I cannot blame him for not acting on Alexios’ behalf.”

Shrugging, she squeezes his hand, “If he even knew how the _acquired_ Deimos at all.”

Brasidas pulls his hand from hers, instead electing to wrap it around her shoulders, tugging her in close against him. With his lips to her hair, he murmurs, “Let’s get back to the ship. The sooner we are back in Lakonia, the sooner we get that break we deserve.”

* * *

 The journey by sea takes a day longer than if they had traveled by land but Brasidas hasn’t found it in himself to care. The salt-spray of the ocean is still a novelty to him--it’s been years since his short stint as a navarch, and he’s never had the joy of a capable sea captain with Sparta’s armies--the smell and feel are things he now associates with Kassandra. He enjoys the time he spends with Herodotos, discussing the trip to Boeotia--and, more excitingly: the Olympics.

“A pity,” Barnabas butts in, lifting a small bowl of wine to his lips, “about Testikles. I’ve never seen a man that big be that drunk before!”

“Or go down that hard.” Herodotos murmurs with a smile hidden behind his hand. “Did you know him, Brasidas?”

“Ah, no, just of him. It is sad we lost a great athlete, though I am glad Kassandra was there to step into his shoes.”

“And win!” Barnabas grins, turning to the where the _misthios_ leans against the railing behind him. “Kassandra! Where is the _kotinos_ ! Show Brasidas the _kotinos,_ please!”

Rolling her eyes, Kassandra pushes off the railing and goes to the chest that sits between the benches. Carefully, she pulls out the olive wreath, made from the sacred tree at Olympia. She holds it like it’s precious, like it could break apart in her hands, and there’s an air of reverence from Barnabas and Herodotos--even Myrrine seems to hold her breath.

“Put it on,” Brasidas whispers, his smile growing wider as he watches her. “Let us see Sparta’s champion.”

Pressing her lips together, she rolls her eyes again and goes to place the wreath upon her head, when Herodotos clicks his tongue at her. “No, no. It must be placed _upon_ you, my dear. Like at the games. Here, let me.”

He takes the wreath from her and settles it into her hair, his fingers feather-light as he makes sure the wreath is secure. Stepping back, Herodotos folds his arms in front of him and nods. “There. Our champion.”

The way he says it, the way he and Barnabas look at Kassandra, Brasidas knows the historian doesn’t mean Sparta’s champion. No, they mean _their_ champion. Their friend. Again, Brasidas is struck by the family Kassandra has cobbled out of these men, out of the lieutenants on her ship, the crew. They love her, each of them, with a fierceness that rivals Brasidas’.

As if sensing something (does she know that Kassandra loves these men in front of her as much as she loves her own mother?), Myrrine clears her throat and touches Kassandra’s cheeks. “You have made me so proud, lamb. You make all of Hellas proud.”

Her smile wavers and she pulls Kassandra into a hug, whispering something that Brasidas can barely hear. He picks up the words _wish, Nikolaos, proud_ and when Kassandra pulls away, she’s nodding her agreement. She takes the _kotinos_ off and sets it back in the chest. “Don’t want it to be ruined before the kings see I finished their tasks.”

That night, Brasidas leans against the partition at the portside of the _Adrestia._ He’d been cajoled by one of the lieutenants--Odessa, he thinks--about not falling in, that Kassandra would surely send Odessa after him, and she doesn’t want to get wet. He’d laughed and moved behind the wood to appease her. He stares out over the water, thinking, treacherously, that the events in Arkadia felt too easy, that Lagos was too willing to let go--but no, that’s stupid, surely he never wanted to be in the Cult at all.

Kassandra appears at his elbow, leaning with him as they watch the distant lights of Gytheion bob ever closer. They’ll be in Sparta in very soon, where they’ll demand an audience with the kings and ephors as soon as the sun rises. She fiddles with the ring Lagos gave her, the ring he filched from Pausanias.

“What did those letters say?” he murmurs lowly, eyes focusing behind her on the sway of a lantern. “The ones Lagos gave you.”

“Correspondence, between the two. Mostly threats from Pausanias to keep Lagos in line. Orders to send wheat to the Athenians and cover it up on the ledgers. Kill any who try to stop the theft,” she looks up at him as she pockets the ring once more. “Proof for me, proof for you.”

“What more could we ask for?” And still, something eats at him. He fidgets and then: “I have fought by Pausanias’ side. I have been at their war council for years, on missions from _him_ for years. Why not have me killed then? Any one of those missions could have been made to look like it’d gone bad. Why wait?”

“You didn’t start annoying the Cult until Korinthia,” Kassandra reminds him, a gentle hand on his wrist that radiates calm. “There, the Monger was supposed to get rid of you, except I got in his way.”

It isn’t prideful, the way she says it. Just matter of fact: she ruined the Monger’s best-laid plans, just like she ruined the plans of every Cultist she has ever come across. She drops her hand from his wrist and sighs. “We’ll be back in Lakonia within the hour. _Mater_ says she’s going to stay here on the _Adrestia_.”

She’s hesitating again, staring out over the ocean as Gytheion looms closer. He grabs her hand, pressing the scarred knuckles against his lips, catching her gaze. “You are always welcome, Kassandra, in my home.”

Her lips twitch and she gives him a tired smile before nodding. “Alright. Wait for me, then? I won’t be too long after docking.”

Squeezing her hand once more, he watches her wander back toward her mother.


	5. 05

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an extra long chapter today...thanks to everyone who leaves comments and kudos and helps me stay motivated!

His street seems smaller, somehow, as if the buildings are closer together. Claustrophobic compared to the wide, open plains of wheat fields in Arkadia. It’s late, the braziers and moon their only lighting as they make their way to his cramped house.

It smells stale when he opens the door—it’s been a  full eleven months since he last stepped foot in the building. He goes from room to room, opening the shutters and lighting the braziers while Kassandra hovers in the kitchen, idly chewing on her lip and picking at her fingernails. He recognizes the signs of nerves in her by now, and he moves back to her, to catch her hands in his and tug her close.

He’d shed his armor as they reached the harbor, stowing it away in the chest on the _Adrestia_ , next to hers when she’d done the same. Now, holding her in only her thin _chiton_ , fiddling with the ties at her waist as he crowds her against the wall to run his tongue over bite-swollen lip, he’s thankful he did. “Tomorrow will go fine,” he whispers, “We have the proof we need. And then, you’ll get your home back.”

Her fingers spasm at his shoulder, jaw twitching as she turns slightly to look at him. Her eyes search his, his face and she closes the tiny distance between them to kiss him. Fingers tightening into the neck of his _chiton_ , she arches herself into him and he’s helpless to her, pressing back into her, against the wall.

Pulling at the belt at his middle, she frantically yanks it off, sliding her hands up and under the fabric, nails scratching at the muscles in his side, catching, tickling just enough to make him twitch away from her hands. Her hands don’t stay in one place for long, as if desperately trying to map him out under her palms, as if afraid he’s going to disappear if she lets go.

Cupping her face with one hand, the other pulls at the leather wrapping her braid, letting her hair fall loose. She looks so different this way, with her hair down, and he isn’t sure why. She’s still Kassandra: her face the same, the power and strength still there. But she looks younger—sadder when the strands hide part of her face.

Extricating himself from her roaming fingers, he takes her hand and tugs her into the bedroom, stopping when they reach the threshold to tug his _chiton_ off over his head. Throwing it to the side and kicking his sandals off, he sits on the edge of the bed, pulling her into his lap. She straddles him, her thighs strong and warm on either side of his, her hands sliding up his arms as he unwinds the ties around her waist.

Pulling the tunic from her, he leans forward to redden a spot under her collarbone with his teeth, suction, tongue. She’s moving quickly again, untying her _strophion_ and dropping it on the bed beside them. Her hands go to push him down but he stops her, hands firm on her wrists, tugging them behind her back, holding them there.

Groaning softly at the sight of her—willingly giving him the control here, once again—he leans forward and licks a stripe along the side of her breast before drawing her nipple into his mouth, sucking, biting softly. She shivers in his grasp, her hips jerking against his, teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Always in such a hurry, Kassandra,” he growls, trailing open-mouthed kisses back up her chest to he can suck a bruise just under her collarbone. She arches into him, whining, trying to get out of his grasp.

“Dammit, Brasidas,” she hisses at him, tilting her hips against his, trying to upset his calm—and it very nearly works when she darts forward and bites at his clavicle, but he pulls her back, laughter rumbling deep in his chest. She groans, eyes half-lidded, hazy when they try to focus on him. “Let me go, just fuck me—”

He cuts her off with a bruising kiss, finally giving in and letting her wrists go to crush her against him. She shoves him back, pressing his shoulders against the mattress, trembling as she rakes her fingers down his side.

Groaning, he catches her hands and pulls her down to him, one hand going to cup her cheek, her hair strewn across her face and he’s struck dumb once more with just how much he loves this woman. It starts warm in his chest and radiates outward, and he bites his tongue sharply, choosing instead to trace the bow of her lips, gently. Her lips part with a sigh and she tilts her hips against his again.

Grabbing her leg, he pulls her off of him as he rolls, settling between her legs and pushing the hair out of her face. He kisses her then, softly, nudging her nose with his. “As I was saying,” he murmurs, reaching to pull her hands above her head, sudden inspiration coming to him as his foot hits her _strophion_ , sitting in a coiled, forgotten heap at the foot of the bed. “You’re always in a rush. Slow down, Kassandra. We have hours yet.”

Reaching down, he grabs the wrappings and quickly—before she can fight him—wraps her wrist, tying it before sliding the cloth through the slats at the head of his bed, and tying the other wrist as well. She’s staring up at him, something dark and wild in her eyes as she tugs at the restraint, testing it. Biting her lip, she tries to hide her smirk, her laugh, in her arm before sighing. “Brasidas, if you don’t _do something_ , I will end you.”

Chuckling, he slides his hands down her arms, sides until he’s at her hips, where he tugs her small clothes down her legs, fingers lingering at her ankle, knee, hip bone; his lips chasing his fingers’ touch in each spot. She shifts her foot away, trying to pull him closer with it, laughing when he clicks his tongue and threatens to tie her ankles down as well.

She flushes when he says that (and he’s going to have to remember that for later), when he settles between her thighs to pay tribute to the scar at her hip, enjoying the way she shudders as he scrapes his teeth against the mark, holding her hips down as she shifts under him, tugging at the fabric around her wrists.

His hand slips from her waist to the apex of her thighs, fingers brushing against her folds, soaking and slippery with her want. She whines at the feather-light touch, trying to chase his fingers as he brings his mouth to her, licking a broad stroke before parting her with his fingers and spearing his tongue inside of her, desperate for the taste of her, a taste he seemingly cannot live without anymore.

Her knees collide with his shoulders as she bears down against him, arching into him, curses falling from her lips as he works her with tongue and lips, the scrape of teeth. He yearns to draw more of those noises, the ones where the curses become unintelligible and strangled, a long line of stammered high-pitched noises interspersed with his name. He slips his fingers inside of her, curling, chasing the soft flutter of muscles as his mouth latches to her clit, tongue worrying the bundle of nerves, teeth scraping, until she’s shaking under him.

He pulls back, just enough to glance up at her and he’s treated with a vision: her fingers tight around the fabric binding her to his bed, her cheeks pink, hair plastered at her forehead with sweat, bottom lip swollen from her teeth worrying it. Eyes glassy and shaking her head, her mouth works silently for a moment before: “Brasidas,” she sighs, her chest heaving as he slips his thumb over her clit now, fingers still moving inside of her. “Don’t—I can’t—”

He withdraws his hand and she whines, her nose scrunching up with displeasure, but she is soon soothed when he lines his hips with hers and presses his cock into her, filling her slowly, and he groans as she does—she feels _so good—too good_.

Leaning over her, he tugs at the binds around her wrists, trying to thrust at the same time and not get distracted by the moans and curses from her below him. Finally he gets her free and she immediately grabs at his shoulders, tugging him down to lay atop her, kissing him frantically. He rolls them, so she’s on top, one hand cupping her breast, the other at her hip.

Shuddering above him, Kassandra brushes her fingers across his lips as she rocks her hips against his. He lets her take control this time and is pleased to find her taking her time instead of hurrying towards the finish. Have all of her encounters before been so quick? he wonders. Battle-lust and a night of warmth and never any time to learn more about the person you’re with?

Her fingers trace along the scar at his ribs, the one she claimed made him match her, but he knows he can never match the woman above him, around him. She may not be the goddess others see, but she is still fire made flesh, more than he will ever deserve. She traces the scar again, this time with a nail and he hisses—

“You’re thinking too loudly, Brasidas,” she whispers, dropping forward to kiss him. Against his lips, she hums softly. “Always stuck in your head. A wonder anything gets done.”

He huffs against the smile on her lips, his fingers tightening at her hips as she rolls them forward sharply. Her mouth drops to his neck, worrying a mark against his pulse, one that will show above his armor tomorrow, in front of the kings.

Kassandra pulls back to observe her handiwork, something dark and pleased in her eyes when they snap back to his. Her fingers trace the bruise, then, as quick as lightning, she’s tugging him up, pulling him into a sitting position so she’s in his lap.

She traces his lips and arches against him, pulling his head to her neck. “Mark me,” she whispers into his ear, and he shudders at the hoarse quality of her voice, at the growl in her throat, at the _idea_ of her walking into the court tomorrow with his bite upon her, and her bruise on him. A warmth is building in his belly, the base of his spine as they move against each other—her rolling hips losing their rhythm, her sighs and moans breathier. “Please, Brasidas, I don’t care, let them see—”

And this maybe be as close to a declaration of love as either gets, for now, he realizes. He’s not coward for not saying it, he thinks; he’s pragmatic. There’s no telling what could happen in the next hour, let alone lifetime, if there will even be a lifetime. They are at war, both of them—him with Athens and her with the Cult and there is no place for love in a battlefield as crowded and bloody as this one. They could be used against one another, compromised—would he let Sparta burn if it meant she’d be safe?

He’s afraid of the answer to that.

But this, a marking...people will know about them then, but the Cult will be driven out of Sparta tomorrow; a quick slice of her spear will end Pausanias’ reign of terror over his corner of Hellas—and before either of them see the battlefield again, the marks will heal and they will be safe to face the world once more.

So he leans forward and sucks a deep, reddened mark that will bruise, right at the edge of her jaw and throat, where no armor would cover. Her fingers tighten at his shoulders and she shudders and tightens around him, shaking in his hands. Her moan is low in his ear and as he pulls away, she tightens around him once more, sharply, her own doing, and he is lost, spilling himself into her, head against her shoulder.

* * *

The morning comes with rain.

Dark clouds have rolled in, lightning forking across the sky, and when Brasidas comes into the kitchen, he finds Ikaros sitting on his table, shaking the water out of his feathers. “How did you—ah, windows.”

He’d left them open to air out last night, and now he darts from room to room to close them again, though the rain has already been slanting its way in for some time. Ikaros peeps at him from the table, his head cocked curiously to the side.

“She’s finishing getting ready,” he murmurs to the bird, feeling slightly ridiculous. “Ah, I’m sorry, Ikaros, I don’t have any food here, we are stopping at the _agora_ —”

“Who are you talking to?” Kassandra emerges into the room and sighs at Ikaros on the table. Arms on her hips, she shakes her head at him. “Ikaros, no, get off the table!”

“Leave him, Kassandra.” Brasidas reaches out and strokes the top of the bird’s head, earning him a gentle nibble on his finger. “It’s pouring, he’s just seeking shelter.”

“You spoil him,” She fusses, straightening the deep red scarf at her shoulder before holding her arm out. “ _Ela_.”

He shifts to hide his smile—from Ikaros? It’s a bizarre concept that has him wondering if he’s losing his mind—at the condescending tone of her voice, as if she were talking to a small child instead of a bird. He grabs his cloak from the back of the chair, fastening it to his armor as she opens the door and sighs.

“ _Malàka_ , it really is pouring down. Will Linos even be at the _agora_ in this weather?”

He falters and pokes himself with his pin. She remembers the farmer who sells his favorite pomegranates. There are several groves that sell in Sparta, but he has only ever enjoyed Linos’ produce. _No_ , _her mater has mentioned him, I’m sure. I am far from the only one who enjoys his harvest_. Clearing his throat, he nods. “Yes, he never misses a day. Are you sure that’s what you want to eat before seeing the kings?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she shrugs. “They’re your favorite, so, I don’t mind.”

And then she’s ducking out the door, sending Ikaros off to find shelter elsewhere and heading to the _agora,_ and leaving him to stare at the rain pouring outside, lost in the wonder of her remembering such a silly thing about him. He’s quick to follow, blinking rain out of his eyes as they run toward the market, ducking under the awnings and out of the rain.

Linos beams at them when they approach, the wrinkles by his eyes crinkling as he hands Brasidas several large pomegranates. “I heard you were back, General! So I saved them for you, my friend.”

He bows gratefully at the old man as Kassandra pays him, watching the palace through the rain. Ephors are trickling in, one or two at a time and the plan is to go in when Kassandra’s mother arrives. Keeping an eye out for Myrrine, Brasidas murmurs over his shoulder, “Linos, do you mind if we eat here, quickly?”

At Linos’ affirmative, Brasidas pulls his knife from his belt and cuts one of the pomegranates in half, palm catching the ruby juices as seeds burst. Twisting the fruit apart, he hands one half to Kassandra, cutting his into quarters to bite the seeds out of easier. A heavy shape lands on the awning post above him, and when he glances up, Ikaros is there, tilting his head at Brasidas.

Laughing, Kassandra breaks off a section of fruit and tosses it at the eagle. “I told you, you spoil him.” She places the wedge of pomegranate between her teeth, absently wiping the juice on her _chiton_ , under the belt. Tugging the linen-wrapped _kotinos_ out of her pack, she shakes the wrappings off and goes to set it on her head.

Brasidas sets his uneaten pomegranate quarters on Linos’ table, swiping his hands over his cloak before grabbing the crown from her. “No,” he whispers softly, “It ‘must be placed,’ remember?”

Her eyes fill with humor even as she scoffs and rolls her eyes. Taking the pomegranate out of her mouth, she obediently steps forward, ducking slightly so he won’t reach as high. Locking eyes with her, his mouth goes dry and his heart hammers near out of his chest as she blinks her big, golden-hued eyes at him. He loves her, all over again in this moment. Clearing his throat, he sets the _kotinos_ atop her hair, his fingers lingering over the strands before stepping back. “Well met, Kassandra of Sparta.”

Mouth twitching back a smile, she leans in close with her fingers wrapped around his bicep. “Well met, Brasidas.” Glancing to toward the palace, her eyes track across the courtyard and she nods, the olive leaves tickling his nose with how close she is, and her voice is a soft whisper of words that break the spell: “Myrrine is here. We should head in.”

* * *

The door shuts heavily behind them, blocking out the sound of rain and thunder. Braziers flicker wildly in the corners, by the thrones, the wind from the storm whistling through the chamber. Archidamos paces, turning to glare at the trio as they walk in.

Myrrine stops in the middle of the room, Kassandra and Brasidas behind her. From his spot at her back, he can see the tense lines of Kassandra’s neck as she weighs her options—does she give them the good news of the warfront, of the Olympics first, or does she jump straight to the point? Her fingers scratch at her neck and he can make out the purple of the bruise he left on her in the early hours of the morning and feels the burn of the matching one on him.

Brasidas steps forward, hands clasping behind his back as he gives his kings a short bow from the waist. It had been decided he should debrief them first, maybe even lull Pausanias into a false sense of calm before Kassandra pulls the carpet out from under him.

“My kings,” he starts as he straightens. “I have returned with news from Arkadia.”

He lays out the intelligence he gathered in the last year: how grain shipments were missing but written off as sold to Sparta, deaths and mysterious circumstances surrounding each case. How eventually, the trail led him to Myrrine’s mission of finding a traitor in Arkadia. “We discovered that the traitor, the one selling the grain to Athens, was the archon.”

Archidamos’ eyebrows raise and even Pausanias has the good sense to look shocked. The older king hits the arm of his _thronos_ with his fist. “The archon? Lagos, isn’t it? What became of him, General?”

“Death, Your Majesty.” Brasidas says, clear and unwavering. “With the Eagle Bearer’s help, we infiltrated Fort Samikon and disposed of him. The grain will flow, undisputed, back into Sparta.”

It’s a crushing blow—to know that one of their own had betrayed them, but it’s not as bad as it could have been, with riots in the streets and granaries burning to the ground. And now Sparta thinks Lagos dead, and he will be safe in Kephallonia.

“Anything else?” Archidamos focuses on Myrrine and Kassandra behind him, eyebrows furrowing warily. Brasidas takes a step back, his time finished, letting the women move forward.

“I hardly think we needed an audience of ephors for a debriefing,” Pausanias smirks as he stands up. He moves down the dais to stand before Kassandra. “You must have interesting news indeed, for such an adoring crowd.”

Kassandra crosses her arms and stares him down. “Boeotia is yours. Stentor and Nikolaos were still there when I left for Elis.”

The shift in atmosphere is almost tangible—a wide swept titter rising from the crowd of ephors and kings, excitement that the Wolf has returned (and Brasidas wonders how they’ll decide to punish Nikolaos for desertion—he has come back, after all, and he is one of Sparta’s most loyal sons, having proved that twenty-something years ago atop Mount Taygetos) but when Brasidas focuses on Pausanias he sees a panic in his eyes, just for a moment.

Kassandra pulls the _kotinos_ from her hair, cradling it carefully in her hands before holding it out to the kings. “There was an issue with your _pankration_ champion—he met an accident at sea, but I entered and I won the Olympics for Sparta.”

She says it with such nonchalance, as if it were such a simple and easy thing to just take the place of a man who had trained his whole life for the games and to walk away with the winner’s wreath. He cannot help but smile as Archidamos takes the wreath from her, watching the old king shake his head.

“If you have nothing but good news to share,” he rumbles, turning the _kotinos_ over in his hands before handing it to Pausanias, “then why did you call for the ephors?”

One of the ephors—a man named Dadakes, Brasidas recalls—clears his throat and steps forward. “We were told serious accusations would be brought forward.”

Heaviness fills the room at these words, tension billowing like smoke. Archidamos sneers his disdain and Pausanias laughs, sharp and angry. “Serious charges,” the younger king hisses. “Against _whom_?”

Kassandra steps forward, a burst of energy in an otherwise still room. Brasidas can nearly see as much as feel the anger radiating off her body as her fists clench at her sides. From the rafters of the room, Ikaros (when had he come in?) calls to her, softly, as if knowing her emotional state. Swallowing hard and baring her teeth in some sort of twisted smile: “You act as if you do not know. Against _you_ , Pausanias.”

There’s another rise and fall of whispers and wonderings around them, from the ephors as they shift and lean in closer to watch this happen. Pausanias laughs again, colder this time, hatred in his eyes, tinged with worry. Brasidas shifts behind Kassandra, hands clasped behind his back, ready for any move from the traitor-king.

Kassandra meets Pausanias’ gaze, cool and level. “I have traveled Spartan lands and beyond and found proof of his betrayal. He is a member of the Cult of Kosmos. It was the Cult that blackmailed Lagos into his betrayal, and for that he has paid with his life. These traitors are willing to kill hundreds. _Thousands_. Playing both sides, to prolong the profits reaped through war. I have all the proof you need right here.”

She takes out the stacks of _papyros_ given to her by Lagos, other notes she’d collected from Cultists now dead, the heavy signet ring bearing Pausanias’ crest, and hands them to Dadakes. The ephor holds the ring loosely in his fingers as he reads over the letters, the correspondences between Lagos and the king, the note to the Monger in Korinthia— _send Brasidas home on his shield—_ all signed, stamped, with the ring in wax.

Dadakes lets out a snort, shaking his head. A muscle in his cheek is twitching and Brasidas fixates on it, watching the man struggle to calm before: “So the rumors are true. We never would have thought a king could be so... _dishonorable_.”

Archidamos stands in a flash of fury, his gnarled finger pointing at Pausanias, spittle flying as he shouts, “You? You _betrayed Sparta?!”_

Moving her hands behind her back, Kassandra watches as Archidamos reaches for the other king, fingers twisting in Pausanias’ _exomis_. “It was always him,” she murmurs, her voice disturbingly calm, and Archidamos turns to look at her, eyes wild with anger. “Hiding behind the guise of reason, of progressiveness. Hiding in the shadows like a snake. He deserves death for his crimes.”

“How dare you threaten a king!?” Pausanias shrieks, trying for one last moment to turn this back on Kassandra. But as the ephors begin to crowd around them, Brasidas wraps his hand around Kassandra’s arm and pulls her out of the way. Trembling, Pausanias cries out: “Before Athena and Ares, I swear you’ll regret this! Justice will be done! _”_

“Yes,” Kassandra meets his eye one last time. “You will have your justice, Puppet-King.”

The circle of ephors grows smaller around the two kings, Archidamos still holding Pausanias there by the fabric of his _exomis_ and _himation._ Some of the statesmen pull daggers, short swords, knives out of their belts and Pausanias’ eyes bug out. Panting, he yells: “The state and the Gods demand that the Kings of Sparta must not be harmed!”

“Oh,” Dadakes chuckles darkly, a long, thin rope stretched between his hands. “The Gods will understand.”

Archidamos catches Brasidas’ eye, voice booming to be heard: “Leave us. This Traitor King will no longer be a problem.” His gaze slides to Myrrine and he shakes his head. “You have done more than enough for Sparta. Your home and citizenship are returned to you.”

Myrrine lets out a soft sob and bows. Brasidas and Kassandra bow as well, his hand still on her arm as they usher out of the throne room, letting the heavy door close between them and the bone-chilling scream of Pausanias.

The rain comes down even heavier, now. A messenger appears at Myrrine’s elbow, a key in his hand—the key to her home. She takes it, hands shaking and turns to grin at her daughter. “You did it. We have our home back, lamb. You did it!”

Myrrine tugs Kassandra into a hug and she returns it, though Brasidas does not miss the way her hands tremor. Swallowing hard, Kassandra nods toward the rain. “Well, let’s go see it, _mater._ ”

“Here,” Brasidas mumbles, reaching to unpin his heavy, red cloak from his shoulders. He hands it to Myrrine and gestures at her head. “You can use this to stay dry. I can collect it later—”

“Nonsense,” Myrrine murmurs as she wraps the cloth around her head and shoulders, the heavy, long fabric reaching past her knees. “You helped us achieve this victory, Brasidas. Come and see if it was worth it.”

The house is stuffy and stale-smelling. As Kassandra lights braziers and Myrrine soaks it in, Brasidas busies himself with opening shutters to air the building out.

Humming to herself, Myrrine stops at a short table holding a pot filled with long-dead flowers. She takes the stems out and laughs softly to herself. “Every week, I changed them out. I never would have thought Nikolaos would keep doing it after—after everything. ”

She hands the dead flowers to Kassandra, who sets them on the dinner table for now. Continuing her tour through the old house, Myrrine stops again in front of a small, mid-height table under a panel painting. Her breath catches as she strokes a finger over the figures painted there: Nikolaos, younger, with dark hair instead of grey; and a small girl, three years old at the most, dark-haired and golden-eyed.

Brasidas turns to look at Kassandra and she’s frozen, staring at the painting as if she’s been struck. She swallows hard, the muscle in her jaw twitching as she bites down on the inside of her lip. Glancing at him, she shakes her head once and turns away.

Myrrine sniffles and turns to them, a small smile on her lips. “I had that painted- when you were little, lamb. He was so happy with it. There used to be…” She drifts off, turning to the table and frowning. “It’s missing. A trophy from your first hunt: a rabbit skull.”

“Perhaps seeing each other in Megaris,” Kassandra whispers, gripping the back of a chair so tight her knuckles have whitened, “brought up some memories. I know it did for me.”

“I suppose I wasn’t the only one longing for home,” Myrrine ventures, reaching out for her daughter and pulling her into a hug. A moment later, she pulls back and smiles shakily at Brasidas over her daughter’s shoulder. “Why don’t you two go upstairs, see your old room? Make sure nothing moved in while we were gone.”

Kassandra rolls her eyes, but steps back and guides Brasidas to the stairs with a shaky hand on his shoulder. Slowly, they walk up the stone steps, taking in the swirling tiles creating an octopus that trails along the wall.

“I doubt it was even in use, my room. Unless Stentor lived in it,” she murmurs from behind him. As he reaches the landing, he takes out a flint stone to spark a fire into the brazier at the top of the stairs. Illuminated by the flame, Kassandra’s dark hair glows orange and red, her eyes flickering in time with the movement of the fire. She swallows hard and glances back down the stairs. “I want to hate him, Brasidas. I want to hate him _so much_ for letting them take Alexios, for throwing me off the mountain. But when I try, I feel only sadness.”

His hand feels heavy as he cups the side of her head, pulling her closer so he can rest his forehead against hers. “I think that is normal, Kassandra. He did not live up to the monster you wanted him to be. It’s okay to still care for him, knowing what you do now, that it was the Cult—”

“He proved his fucking loyalty to Sparta, though. Is that what this place wants? For you to cast down your children the moment they are unfit in her eyes? What will you do when she calls for you to do so, Brasidas?” She hisses, pulling away from him to light the next brazier.

Her words of anger aren’t meant for him, he knows that. That she is upset and vulnerable here in the shadows of her childhood home, faced with the knowledge that Nikolaos left reminders of his love for her all over the house. Faced with the fact that he still chose country over family—and the fear (because he could hear the tremble in her voice, the one she tried to hide) that Brasidas would one day do the same.

It hits him like an arrow to his heart. Emotions and reactions trip over themselves to push to the forefront of his mind. Does she think about the future, with him? What _would_ he do, should the kings ever order him to do something as horrible as Nikolaos had to do? How does he fight that? How can he change the deep, stinking rot of this land he wishes he didn’t love so much?

“We are changing Sparta,” he murmurs, his voice cracking slightly. She turns to look at him, eyes wide and sad but he stays where he is and continues on. “You and I, we are changing the way they think, one corrupt person at a time. It is my hope that one day, no father will have to cast a child away to appease the state. It is a slow process, Kassandra. But we will weed it out.”

She gives him a small nod, then musters a smile for him and points at the room to their left. “Mine. Let’s go see if Stentor ruined it.”

When they light the brazier there, the room is flooded with light and Brasidas can see very quickly that Stentor did _not_ move in. It looks as if no one has touched the room since the night on Taygetos. Kassandra stops as soon as she walks in, frozen to the spot as she takes in the room and a dozen ghosts from her past:

A small child’s bed in the corner, a sun-bleached blanket upon it—and he can very faintly tell it was once dyed green, with a leaf pattern dotting the fabric—with a table and oil lamp beside it. Training weapons piled in the corner, staffs leaning against the wall, toys strewn across the bed, tangled in with the blanket—chickens and pigs, a couple of dolls. There’s a stack of _papyros_ on a low table against the opposite wall and from here Brasidas can see the doodles a child makes in their spare time: a stick-figured child, parents, a wrapped up round-shaped baby. Her family.

Kassandra turns around, her lower lip trembling, and lets out a long sigh. “I don’t want to be here,” she whispers and her voice sounds high, stressed. He reaches for her and takes her hands, holding her steady as she shakes her head roughly. “I want to leave, please. I don’t think _mater_ will understand, but I can’t be here anymore—”

Brasidas pulls her into his arms, squeezing her shoulders, whispering soft words to help her regain control. Moving back just enough to cup her face, he presses a kiss against the apple of her cheek and his lips come away wet. “Let’s go. Don’t worry about Myrrine, just go downstairs.”

In the kitchen, he finds Myrrine and he tells her that they’ll return later, tomorrow, maybe. She watches Kassandra over his shoulder, noting the way she’s started to chew her lip to shreds, eyes darting as she tries to not settle on one thing for too long. Mouth tight, Myrrine nods and sighs when Kassandra flits out the door without another word.

Brasidas winces, bows at Myrrine and promises he’ll send Kassandra back as soon as she’s ready, before following her out the door.

He finds her in the front yard, face tilted up to the sky, eyes closed as the heavy summer rain falls on her face and like this, he can’t tell if it’s rain or tears on her face.

She turns to him when he walks to her, her lower lip swollen and bruised from her teeth and he tucks her under his arm, beginning the walk back to his house.

* * *

Kassandra’s in his room and curled under the _stromata_ before he manages to shut the front door and lock it. Ikaros coos from the table, hopping from one foot to another when Brasidas comes up to stroke the bird’s wet feathers. He grabs a decorative blanket off of his _kline,_ rolling it up for the bird to—what? Nest in? Brasidas isn’t sure what Ikaros needs or wants, but the appreciative nibble at his finger when he lays it down with a chunk of pomegranate and a few strips of salted pork from his bag tells him enough.

He creeps into his bedroom, quietly removing his armor, placing it in the corner, before crawling into bed with her. She’s curled away from him, facing the wall and shivering under the thin blanket. Standing again, he opens the chest at the foot of his bed, pulling out furs, laying them on her, even in the summer heat. He knows sadness knows no temperature, that her shivers have more to do with comfort than weather. Sliding his hand over her arm, he moves to pull away, to give her time, but she stops him, fingers curling around his, pulling him closer.

Brasidas slides into place behind her, arm around her waist, chin on her shoulder, listening to her quiet sniffles. Kassandra sighs shakily, turning in his grasp to look at him, her eyes red from crying, her face wet.

“I was supposed to clean up my toys,” she whispers, fingers shaking as they trace the lines of his face. “They wanted me to put them away—I was too old for such toys; they were to be Alexios’ now. Instead I drew pictures and left them out. They...they were never going to give to them Alexios, though. They knew, Brasidas. They _knew—”_

Her voice breaks and she tucks herself into his shoulder, the tears falling faster, the sobs harder. He wonders if she has ever let herself feel for that night—how long has she kept the memories at bay, in the name of moving forward?

Pressing his lips against her forehead, he tugs her closer, fingers combing through her hair, undoing her braid, just holding her until the sobs start to die out, the shaking in her shoulders begins to ease. Her breathing is unsteady, shaky little puffs of air into his neck, and when she pulls back, her face is red, tear-stained, wet.

He kisses her cheeks, softly, then the scar at her nose, the one on her eyebrow, and finally the one above her lip. Her smile is exhausted, sad, but there. “Sleep,” he whispers against her lips. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Just sleep.”

* * *

The rain stops overnight, leaving behind mud puddles and sticky, oppressive, summer humidity.

Sunlight dapples over them through the windows; birds singing and the bustle of a city awakening are the only noises Brasidas can hear. In his arms, Kassandra stirs, her face peaceful, her cheeks dry. She moves again and he is suddenly very aware of his condition. Mornings, he thinks, can be the worst.

He tries to move away from her, keeping his hips from touching hers but she moves back into his embrace, her ass pressing against his morning erection and wiggling—

“You’re awake,” he mutters into her ear and she laughs, opening one eye and grinning at him. He stills her wiggling with a soft but firm grip on her hip, kissing her shoulder. “How are you?”

“Better,” she whispers, tilting her head back to press a kiss against his chin, his jaw. “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” turning his head to catch her lips, he sighs: “Don’t thank me, Kassandra.”

Smiling against his lips, she kisses him again, harder this time, pressing her tongue against his lips, diving in when he opens them. Her fingers press into his hips, pulling him forward and she rubs her ass against him again, drawing a soft moan from him.

Swallowing hard, Brasidas pulls away enough to wrangle his _chiton_ over his head, then hers. He pulls her back against him, his hands covering her breasts, squeezing as his hips move against hers. He drops kisses along her shoulder, her neck, just below her ear before pulling the earlobe in between his teeth.

She works her small clothes down over her hips, tugs at his from her awkward positioning. He relents after a moment, rolling up to sit at the edge of the bed, kick the undergarments off before curling back into her.

His hand snakes down her abdomen to press against her folds, and he finds her already wet, surprising him. He dips his fingers inside of her, dragging her moisture out, pumping the digits in and out of her until she whines and arches into him.

Dropping another kiss at her shoulder, he pulls his fingers away, instead gripping her thigh, lifting it up. She takes the hint, curls it back over his hip as he guides his cock to slip between her folds, dragging against her clit for a moment before pressing deep inside of her, drawing a high pitched whine from her throat.

He strokes her breast with one hand, the other holding her leg up so he can thrust experimentally from behind her. Her fingers curl into the furs beneath her, her mouth dropping open in a silent exclamation.

“Oh, _gods._ ” she mumbles, dragging her hand down her body to circle her clit. She shudders under her own ministrations, under his thrusts. “Oh, gods, you feel so _good._ ”

He groans as her words make his cock twitch inside of her—they fill him with a swell of pride, an animalistic need to know he is giving her pleasure. Hitching her leg up over his hip, he braces his foot against the bed and thrusts harder against her, his fingers chasing hers away to circle and play with her clit.

She shudders again, her walls squeezing him as she lets out a soft moan, her hands coming to her breasts, to pluck and squeeze her nipples as she rocks back into him. This won’t last long, he knows—he can feel the pleasure building up in the base of his spine, in the way her cunt quivers around him, her unsteady rolling of her hips, and he’s fine with that. This time, in the early-morning haze, he just wants to hear her come, feel her come around his cock. There will be time enough for drawing it out later.

Softly, he pinches at her clit, and she shakes, her hand flying back to clutch at his hip, nails digging into the flesh. “More,” she pants, almost sobbing, “ _More_.”

Sinking his teeth into her shoulder, he snaps his hips up into her, pressing harder with his fingers as he circles and pinches at her clit again. Her nails claw into his hip, holding on as her free hand pinches and pulls at her nipple, her teeth sinking into her lip. She’s mumbling curses mixed with his name, rolling her hips against his and with one more sharp thrust of his hips, she comes—

Mouth open, she’s silent as she shakes around him, stiffening and riding it out, her cunt squeezing him, drawing him in deeper, and he can’t hold back, he gives in and comes, groaning into her neck, fingers scrabbling at her hip.

He falls back with a grunt, pushing his hair off of his sweaty forehead. “Gods. You’ll be the death of me, Kassandra.”

Chuckling, Kassandra draws one of the furs over her breasts, turning over to rest her head against his shoulder. “Making up for that year apart,” she scoots forward and kisses the bruise she left yesterday. “I missed you.”

 _I love you,_  he almost says.

Instead, he wraps his arm around her and kisses her forehead. “I missed you, too.”

She quiets against his shoulder, her fingers tracing widening circles on his chest until she reaches the side of him. Her work is idle and he knows it’s not malicious, but it’s dangerously close to tickling and—

“Ah,” he squirms away from her fingertips even as he starts laughing. Kassandra pushes up on her elbow, raising her eyebrows at him and he shakes his head, grabbing at her fingers to keep her from attacking his sides. “No, don’t.”

“Are you _ticklish_ ,” she hisses with delight, her grin wide and easy, her eyes lighting with joyful discovery. “The mighty warrior, Brasidas of Sparta, ticklish?”

“You act as if it’s something I have control of, _no—_ ” He rolls out of the bed, away from her hands when they slip out of his grasp. His foot catches in the _stromata_ , and he stumbles backwards into the wall with a grunt.

Kassandra hangs halfway out of the bed, laughing so hard she’s clutching her stomach, tears forming at the corner of her eyes. Grabbing at the furs beneath her, she hauls herself back up, pushing her hair out of her eyes and grinning breathlessly at him.

His breath catches in his throat, looking at her. He untangles his foot from the blanket he’s dragged across the room, leaning heavily into the wall, his eyes never leaving hers. She’s amazing, across from him, a pinnacle of beauty: tanned skin stretched taut over muscles and bones, her scars each telling him a different tale of her life. His heart stops and he says it before he realizes what he’s done. “I love you.”

Across from him, she freezes, her eyes widening as she takes in his words. He feels like an idiot, dropping his gaze to grab the blanket from the floor and wrap it around his waist. He said it now? How stupid of him. She’d been vulnerable the night before, he was taking advantage of that—and what of the war? Spies could be everywhere, even if the Cultist King was gone, surely someone would still be out there, feeding information to them. He could die on his next mission against Athens. She could be injured—both of them could be compromised and he just made it _so much worse—_

She’s in front of him now, her _chiton_ loose around her waist, having hastily thrown it on to drag his gaze back up to hers. Her fingers are cool against his burning cheeks and he swallows hard when he finally looks at her. She’s solemn, her thumb swiping against his lip and when she speaks, there’s the barest tremble to her words, her whisper soft as silk: “Brasidas,” she leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth and he stays stock-still, waiting for her to walk away. “I love you, too.”

He blinks at her, his hand coming to rest at her hip and she huffs a laugh at his expression, her hands pushing his hair back, leaning her forehead against his. “Is that so hard to imagine? Me loving you back?”

Dazed, he turns his head, brushing his lips against hers in a soft kiss, then again harder, turning them until she’s pressed against the wall and his hands are inching up her bare thighs, up under the _chiton_ , his mouth slanted over hers. She throws her arms around his shoulders, laughing into the kiss when he hoists her up against him, pressing her legs to wrap around his waist.

Turning around, he carries her back to the bed, laying her on the furs. She grabs his hands, tangling her fingers with his and pulls away to stare up at him with kiss-bruised lips and the emotion he’d been afraid to name shining in her eyes. He swallows hard, shakily, leaning forward to bump her nose with his own, his voice hoarse, “I don’t deserve you.”

Her sigh is a puff of warm air on his cheek and she lets go of his fingers to cup his face, siding hands up to his hair to grip and make him look at her. “That’s not how this works.” She’s barely louder than a whisper, voice low, eyes serious. “What’s wrong?”

 _You should be happy_. It’s not Lagos’ voice; that voice left him months ago, when he finally saw it for himself that he was in love. No, this voice is all his own, ragged and angry that he chose now to say the words.

“I don’t want to tie you to this place,” he whispers, finally. Sitting back, Brasidas runs his hands over his face and hunches forward, thinking how best to put his thoughts out there. “And if something were to happen, on the battlefield, I don’t want you to be compromised because of me—”

“You think that if you didn’t say the words, I’d be free of that?” Kassandra follows him into sitting up, curling her hand around his bicep. “Your words wouldn’t have changed how I felt anyway, only that we’d both be too coward to say them, and if something did happen, we’d possibly never know.”

She strokes the scar at his cheek before tucking her face into his arm, sighing softly as he leans his head against hers. They stay like that for a moment before he exhales in a rush, shaking his head. “I know you hate Sparta, Kassandra. And I do not blame you, but it is...a part of me. And I would not keep you in a place you hate.”

“It’s not just you keeping me here.” She pulls back again to look at him and there is a sadness in her eyes, deep and wounded. “Myrrine will not give up her home. I will always be tied to Sparta, Brasidas. With or without you.”

It doesn’t make him feel better, not when she is resigned to the pain he knows she feels, to knowing that the sadness she felt in her childhood home isn’t fleeting, that it will follow her as long as she steps foot in this city. But her hands are cool against his cheeks when she kisses him, her pulse quick against his lips when he scrapes his teeth against her neck. Her hands are sure, steady, when she pushes him down onto the bed and guides him inside her, surging forward, fingers twisted with his at her hip.

Her voice doesn’t waver when she bends down, and under a curtain of her hair, she tells him again and again that she loves him, chasing the words with kisses and soft cries as they move against each other. He takes her strength as his own—trusting her with it, and the words said here this morning.

When she comes, shuddering and trembling against him, around him, he holds her, kisses her and whispers the words against her lips once more: _I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he said it!!!


	6. 06

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am so excited to announce that my editor and friend, Charlotte, has joined me in writing this story now! She's here to bring you to the pain train, so get excited. :D 
> 
> Also, I am finally at the end of my surgical leave and will be returning to work on Wednesday, and for that reason we are taking a short hiatus so we can bulk up the pre-written chapters and also make sure you guys are getting the best story possible. I will be updating our progress at my tumblr and we are also doing Homestead AU prompts, so please come by and follow me!! I am [thatsouthernanthem](thatsouthernanthem.tumblr.com) and Charlotte is [alethiometry](alethiometry.tumblr.com)..I ramble a lot and Charlotte is classy. 
> 
> So yes, moving on:

Months pass as Sparta settles into an uneasy routine.

Archidamos has the ephors deliver a speech, letting the Spartiates know that while they finish out the investigation of Pausanias and his Cult affiliation, Archidamos will continue to rule in a just and Spartan manner. The crowd cheers and the _hippeis_ disperses, charged with finding and interrogating anyone in Pausanias’ family line.

Anyone, that is, except Kassandra and Myrrine, two members of the Agiad line beyond reproach. For now.

Brasidas attends war councils nearly every day, standing at the side of the King, listening to reports of Athens’ movements, of where Sparta excels, and where she has failed. Boeotia remains strong; Stentor is recommended for promotion again, and Nikolaos recommended to pay but a small penalty for his desertion. They can spin this, the ephors and generals agree: they can make it so it seems he was under direct orders from the crown. Solo missions, Brasidas knows from personal experience, issued in private and carried out with utmost discretion, are not uncommon. Far better to keep their Wolf close; there’s already been a noticeable boost in morale among the soldiers.

Archidamos agrees to all of it with a weary wave of his hand. Brasidas points out Arkadia needs an archon, and soon it is agreed that Stentor would be ideal. He is unendingly loyal—willing to kill his own step-sister to avenge his father, chatter from the battlefront says—smart, and brave. He will not succumb to the Cult like the others before him.

He leaves the war council with a headache behind his eyes that only begins to dissipate when he sees Kassandra leaning against a pillar outside the palace. She looks so casually disrespectful when the ephors pass by her, when Archidamos walks by—not even a nod for her king, her eyes only on Brasidas. Perhaps on any other day, the old king would reprimand her, but today he moves quickly toward his house, pinching the bridge of his nose with a headache of his own.

A messenger scampers by, a lanky _perioikos_ boy who looks to be hardly twenty, nearly bowling Brasidas over in his haste to reach the ephor he is seeking.

Alone now as the last of the generals makes their way back to the _syssitia_ , Brasidas leans in to press a kiss to Kassandra’s brow, relishing—not for the first time—the few inches of height he has over her. “I think I may have gotten your step-brother promoted.”

She groans, falling into step with him as they wander toward the _agora_ , side-stepping children playing in the streets. Above them, Ikaros calls out, circling low before flying off toward his house. Kassandra turns her head to look at Brasidas, a gleam of playfulness lighting her eyes even as she frowns. “So, what is he now? Oh, is he the new King of Sparta?”

“He may be your brother, but he is not of the Agiad line,” Brasidas reminds her, as if she could have possibly forgotten. “No, I simply reminded the ephors that Arkadia is without an archon, and they would be smart to fill that position soon.”

“He’s so young,” Kassandra’s frown turns a bit more real. “They don’t want to give it to someone with more experience?”

“Soldiers with more experience for Sparta rarely want a job without bloodshed.” Brasidas strokes his beard as they near a stall selling dried meats and hard cheeses. He needs to restock his pantry, and he reaches to pick up a basket of dried venison. “Lagos was roughly his age when he took the position.”

“And the Cult got to him,” she crosses her arms and fixes him with a stare. “What makes you think they won’t get to Stentor too?”

“Because Stentor knows what they are. All of Sparta’s elite now know of the Cult of Kosmos. They will be hard-pressed to find someone they can trick. Now, if he is a willing participant, that is another story. Do you think he would join on his own accord?”

Kassandra sighs and reaches for a parcel of salted pork, adding it to his pile. “Before? When he thought I killed Nikolaos? Yes. Without a doubt, they would have sunk their claws into him and promised him my head.”

She says it with the nonchalance of mentioning the weather for the evening. He wasn’t expecting that—to know that they may have lost another high-ranking member to the Cult. He’s already sent out spies to take down the ones Pausanias put into place, but Stentor hadn’t crossed his list. He’s about to speak when she cuts him off.

“But now? Now that Nikolaos is back and helping Stentor? No, I don’t think there’s any reason for him to join. He has his _pater_ back, I’m gone...nothing standing in his way now.” Her voice is flat, emotionless, just listing out facts. She shrugs and nods, “I guess he would be good for the archon position. He’s smart. He’ll take care of Arkadia. He who controls the grain, controls the world.”

She sounds like she’s parroting the words back from someone and he’s filled with the need to lighten the situation, to make her smile again. He pays for the dried meats, tucking them into his pack so that he can twist his fingers around hers. The evening sky has darkened, and no one is watching them when he pulls her hand up to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.

Her lips twitch into a small smile and she shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Let’s go home.”

The same messenger-boy is hovering on the front steps when they arrive at his house, fidgeting and antsy and _gods damn it_ , Brasidas is so fucking tired.

“What is it?” he asks the boy. “The war council has just concluded for the day, has it not?”

“Y-You’re wanted again, General,” the boy says, and though his hands are clasped behind his back Brasidas can see his fingers are twisting nervously. “It’s urgent. The King will see you now.”

He has barely a moment to exchange a bewildered glance with Kassandra before the messenger beckons him to follow.

* * *

 The map in front of him swims before his eyes, and still he continues to stare; maybe, just maybe, if he stares at it a little longer, something will change. But it doesn’t, and the air around him remains hot and oppressive as Archidamos paces back and forth behind him.

He stalks back up to the war table and slams his fist down, spittle flying from his lips as he snarls at the generals and ephors before him: “How the _fuck_ did this happen!? We outnumbered them two days ago!”

The generals remain silent, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. Brasidas stares down at the map again, looking at the blue that bleeds over Pylos, surrounding a small island dyed red: Sphakteria. A deep guilt sets in, moving into his belly. While he has been enjoying time off, time spent planning, time spent playing house with Kassandra, his brothers have been sent to fight battles all over Hellas. And in this one, on this tiny island off of Messenia, they have been sent to die.

Nervously, the messenger-boy steps forward, and tells them again what happened: Sparta outnumbered Athens. The Athenian commander, Demosthenes, met them every inch of the way. He was prepared for where the Spartans tried to take them on land, and he held off simultaneous land and sea battles.

That does not surprise Brasidas in the least; Demosthenes has been a thorn in his side the entirety of this war, but is nothing if not an excellent military mind.

Sparta had ceased their attempts to storm the island and began preparing for a siege. They’d called in for siege machines from the mainland, thinking they had more time.

Meanwhile, Athens’ reinforcements arrived from Zakynthos: fifty hulking triremes. Caught unprepared, the Spartan ships were unable to keep them from entering the bay and were soundly defeated. Athens took hold of the harbor, and now…

“And now,” the messenger hesitates, his voice trembling as he watches the shadow over Archidamos’ face grow darker and darker. Glancing down, Brasidas can see his king’s knuckles turning white on the edge of the table, can feel the anger simmering in his body. The messenger clears his throat and continues, “Now they are trapped, my King.”

“How many?” he growls. When no one answers him immediately, he slams his fist down on the table again, making several ephors jump. Brasidas bites his tongue and takes a deep breath, still staring at the war map. Something must jump out at him, _something_ . Archidamos knocks over a pawn representing a trireme. “How _many_?”

“Three hundred and eighty...Spartan hoplites, my King,” the messenger says weakly. “One hundred and twenty of them Spartiates.”

There it is. The straw that breaks Archidamos. Brasidas winces at the news, shaking his head as the ephors gasp and titter and Archidamos throws himself backward, stalking back toward his throne. That many citizens will send Sparta into a crisis if they are lost.

“They’re going to starve them out,” Brasidas murmurs.

“They—they might do that, yes,” the messenger pipes up—so reluctantly, his voice so shaky, it’s a wonder he hasn’t disintegrated under the stares of everybody in the room. “They might starve our men out. But there are rumors of another sort of reinforcement arriving…”

Gilded armor, gleaming sword. Quiver-less, for he is not Athenian, though they have taken to calling him their champion; shield-less, too, for he has not been Spartan since he was six months old. As tall and broad-shouldered as any hero of legend, but with a blood-thirst rivaling the monsters of Tartarus, and the blind, raging ferocity of an injured beast.

Brasidas watches the color drain from the old king’s face, watches the _hippeis_ murmur among themselves, and has to bite his tongue to keep from bursting into wild, despondent laughter at the irony of it all.

_We threw him away. We chose our city, our glory, over his life, and lifted his father into living legend. The Wolf of Sparta, a war hero, every honor of his long and distinguished career bestowed over the broken corpse of his own infant son._

They don’t know. How do they not know?

_Doom for Sparta, unless his skull split in two and spilled his blood at the base of Taygetos. So in the end, perhaps the Pythia was right._

It is not a siege the Athenians are planning, he realizes. It is a slaughter.

_We threw him away, and now he will kill us all._

It takes him a moment to realize his name is being called.

“Yes, my King?” He clasps his hands behind his back and stands at attention, rearranging his face into what he hopes is a neutral expression.

“The Eagle Bearer,” Archimados says. “You and she are…close. I would have called your dalliance foolish before tonight, General, but now I am reminded that closeness fosters loyalty on a battlefield.”

 _She has done enough for you_ , Brasidas wants to snap. _More than enough. You are lucky to still draw breath, and it is all thanks to her._

_Have you ever thought of that, my King?_

“The services of a _misthios_ of her repute do not come cheaply, Your Grace,” he says instead. “What shall I tell her by way of compensation, when I propose she join our fight?”

The old king’s face is a mask of righteous rage, and once upon a time it would have been enough to make Brasidas wince and retract his question with a murmur of demure apology. Tonight, however, he stands his ground.

“Let us be clear,” Archidamos spits. “There is no proposition to be had, only duty. Spartan citizenship does not come cheaply, either. You’d do well to remind her of her new status. Our fight is her fight now; a bed to sleep in in this city is compensation enough. Though she shares yours—” and his gaze is sharp and piercing and Brasidas grits his teeth and refuses to blink or break his stare, “—perhaps she should think of her mother.

“I want this fixed, General.” Archidamos slams a wrinkled fist on the map, toppling the little wooden figurines in a mess of blue and red. “Bring your brothers home, and we will strike a blow to Athens so staggering it will bring Athena herself to her knees.”

Brasidas’ fury is a caldera waiting to burst; he hides it behind an easy smile—ever the good soldier—and excuses himself from the council chambers with a practiced bow.

He expects his anger to abate when he catches sight of Kassandra and Myrrine sitting on the bench outside their reclaimed home, passing a wineskin back and forth without a care in the world, but it only seems to multiply tenfold. Kassandra raises an eyebrow when he declines her offer for a drink.

“What’s crawled up your ass?” she asks, merriment dancing in her eyes. “Has Archidamos got another region he’d like me to win? Some monstrous beast to slay? Or perhaps he’d like his house painted? A _real_ challenge, this time, I hope.”

“We’ve been called to war,” Brasidas replies, and sees the laughter drain from both mother and daughter in an instant.

Kassandra’s scowl deepens as he briefs them on the situation at Sphakteria; Myrrine paces back and forth, chewing on the inside of her lip.

“Sphakteria is already lost.” Myrrine’s voice is flat; a muscle twitches in her jaw.

“I know.”

“Your king has sent you to die.”

“I know.”

“But that’s not all,” says Kassandra, “is it?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Brasidas shakes his head and tells them of the Athenian champion.

“I’ll bring him home, _mater_ ,” Kassandra murmurs, taking her mother’s hand.

“You don’t have to come,” he blurts before he can stop himself. Fuck their orders, and fuck Sphakteria. “I leave at first light, but I will not make you fight your own brother.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Kassandra says, letting go of Myrrine and turning down the path that leads to his house. “I’m a full-fledged Spartiate now, aren’t I? This is as much my duty now as it is yours. Come—I left my armor at your place.”

Kassandra’s bravado lasts as long as it takes for her to let herself into his house and sink onto the edge of his bed with a heavy sigh. Her braid dangles thickly and she twines a loose lock of hair around her fingers.

“You’ve always been honest with me,” she says, “haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he replies.

“Will you be honest with me now?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any way we can win?”

“I—” He heaves a great sigh, and begins, ever so laboriously, to undo the clasps of his armor. It does nothing to lighten the weight that’s settled somewhere inside his lungs. “I don’t know, Kassandra,” he tells her. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“I have imagined what it would be like, you know,” Kassandra mutters, “riding into battle with you. Fighting at your side once more, out in the open for once, instead of simply in the shadows. But—”

“But not like this,” Brasidas finishes.

“No,” she agrees, hanging her head, “not like this.”

“You don’t have to come,” he tells her, again. “I—I can cover for you, tell Archidamos you were nowhere to be found when I came looking. That you took another job, or—or slipped away in the middle of the night—”

“And go where?” Kassandra laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Only bitterness. “Mykonos? Samos? Back to fucking Kephallonia?”

There’s a flicker of the fierceness that he loves so much, but it’s quickly subsumed by something more tempestuous. Resignation, maybe, or doubt. Her fingers tremble, and she clenches them into fists.

“No,” she continues. “I am Spartan once more, and if all I get from this pointless, stupid battle is a chance to save my brother and a home for my mother, then I will come with you and fight by your side.”

“It’s just as likely that all you’ll get is an epitaph engraved with your name,” he snaps, “and a mother who has lost both her children a second time.”

“And you’ll get the same,” Kassandra snaps right back. “Is that what you want?”

“It’s my duty as a son of Sparta.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Perhaps her question shouldn’t be so startling. Perhaps if he’d known long ago what it was to want for himself, and only himself, and to go after those wants, he would have an answer for her that does not end in blood and death and misery.

“I want this to be over,” he tells her. “War is in our blood, Kassandra. We are Spartan; it is all we know. But I want to measure my worth in more than just the blood on my hands, on my spear, and I want the same for every man on that fucking island, Spartan _or_ Athenian. I want to stop sending boys to die in far-flung corners of regions that want no part in this conflict, and I want to stop burying them where they fall, in the filth and the mud so far from home. I want to stop bringing their shields home to mothers who feel it is their duty to hold their heads high, and hide their grief behind proclamations of heroism. I want—I want this to fucking end.”

“You would give your life to make it happen,” Kassandra murmurs, and his heart clenches when she looks up at him, as if they’ve already lost. “But you should know: I won’t let you.”

He bites his lip, chest tight with the desperate need to move, to fight this caged feeling that threatens to swallow him whole. Running his hand over his beard, he turns toward the window, deflating under the tension in the air.

Fighting her is the last thing he wants to do, not when the true battle looms before them—crawling ever closer as doom pounds in his heart.

 _Your king has sent you to die_. Myrrine’s words ring in his ears as he turns and drops to his knees before Kassandra.

“Stay.” His voice cracks when he takes her hand and presses it to his heart. Her fingers curl against the cloth of his _chiton_ , her jaw tight, that pinch of skin at her mouth as familiar to him as the back of his hand. “Tonight. Stay with me. Please.”

He’s never asked her before, he realizes; just always told her she is welcome, always leaving the choice up to her. But now, at this moment, he needs her to stay more than anything; needs to keep her in his arms tonight, to enjoy every last second of their time together. He desperately hopes it won’t be their last—but he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know.

“Of course,” she murmurs, her nails pressing into his chest as she leans forward to kiss him. Her eyes are tired, the gold dulled, dark circles like bruises beneath them, and he pulls her closer, tugging her from the edge of his bed and into his arms.

Shivering against him, Kassandra murmurs a soft declaration of love against his neck, her fingers curling into his hair, around his braid. His lips slide across the skin of her shoulder and along the side of her neck, committing the curve of her muscle to memory once more. He kisses below her ear, lips lingering, breath hot, before moving back to her pulse.

It flutters beneath his lips, quickening when he slips his fingers under the slit in her _peplos,_ when he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss against her skin. Her breathing changes, growing heavier with the slide of his fingers up her thigh and she pulls away from his shoulder to kiss him again, her tongue slipping past his lips.

Kassandra moves back to the bed, tugging her _peplos_ off as she stands, divesting herself of her small clothes as well—utilitarian in her movements, in the quick jerk of fabric down her legs—and he’s quick to follow, _chiton_ and _perizoma_ hastily tossed aside before returning to her embrace. They press against one another, entangling in a kiss as she presses him backward onto the bed.

“I love you,” he whispers, eyes unfocused as he cups her face with his palm. She turns her head and presses her lips against his skin and murmurs the words back. His heart could burst; warring, as it is, with the overwhelming love he feels for her and the dread that sinks into his limbs.

 _Doom,_ pounds his heart. _Doom and doom and doom._

She knows, even through her own worries and exhaustion, how his mind threatens to take him over; she tells him this as she kisses down his chest— _always stuck in your mind, Brasidas—_ and tries to distract him with her tongue at his hip, her hand on his rapidly stiffening cock and her eyes locking onto his, dark and wide with desire.

He takes the hand she offers him, as she moves back up his body, twisting his fingers with hers, and takes the leap—no more thoughts of impending doom and death, at least not for the moments he has her in his grasp. His hand slides to her hip, up around the back of her thigh, hauling her against him, kissing her again.

Their hands roam over bare skin like it’s their first time, committing each dip and swell to memory once more. He focuses on the taste of her tongue in his mouth; the scent of her skin—embers and poppies, sweat and oil—under her ear; the tang of sweat on her collarbone, sternum and hip; and most of all, the explosion of her when he presses his tongue against her cunt.

Knowing he has thought this every time, he still relishes in the fact he could never grow tired of the taste of her: the salt and iron of the rest of her concentrated tenfold here between her thighs. He laps at her like a man starved, pinning her folds with his thumbs so that he can curl his tongue deep inside of her. He will never tire of her gasps and moans above him, her hand carding through his hair to tangle in his braid, or the press of her foot against his shoulder, or—and this may be his favorite part—when she cries out his name when she comes around his fingers, under his tongue.

Crawling up her body, he drops kisses on her stomach, her breasts, and finally her lips. She is breathless, cheeks pink with exertion, sweat dotting her brow and she is the most exquisite person he has ever seen in his life. Fitting himself between her thighs, Brasidas guides his cock inside of her, bottoming out in one strong thrust just to hear her whine his name once more.

She grabs at his neck, tugging him down to kiss him, to push her forehead against his, her ragged nails sharp against his skin. His thrusts are slow and deep, his eyes locked onto hers—half-lidded and glazed with desire—his hands tight at her hip and the back of her thigh. He wants this moment to last forever: where her heat surrounds him, the taste of her sweat against his lips, the love shining intently in her eyes—he doesn’t want to ever leave this moment.

Half-mad, he thinks of running away with her. Of defying his country and taking her away from it all. It still feels like betrayal in his heart, a cold shiver of _traitor_ whispering in his mind. He cannot do it, even now; the mere thought of having to choose between his love and his home threatens to tear his heart asunder.

Kassandra whispers his name against his lips, her hips rolling to meet his, her hands coming to frame his face. “You’re thinking too much again,” her voice hitches as he quickens his thrusts, desperate to bring himself back into the moment. She smiles against his mouth and he closes his eyes to hide the fear he worries is shining through. “I love you.”

He crushes his lips against hers, his movements faster, his hips stuttering into hers as desire and need take over them both. She clenches around him, her moans swallowed by his kisses, his fingers spasm at her hips and he comes with a growl. His thrusts slow, become uneven, then stop as he holds himself above her with shaking limbs.

“I love you,” he murmurs, staring down at her, his voice hoarse. “I cannot bear to lose—”

She tugs him down on top of her, arms holding his shoulders so he cannot leave. He can hear the staccato beat of her heart against his ear, her uneasy breathing as she presses fingers through his hair again. After a moment, he realizes she’s humming something, softly, under her breath, and he pulls himself from her grasp so he doesn’t crush her, rearranging them so she’s leaning against him.

Brushing his fingers against her cheek, he sighs and leans back to stare up at the ceiling. He should sleep—they both should—but he doubts Hypnos and the Oneiroi will visit him tonight.

Perhaps it is for the better, he thinks. Every moment awake now is another moment to hold close, to cherish as they ride into battle.

“I cannot sleep over the sound of your thinking,” Kassandra grumbles, and he can’t help an apologetic chuckle. His fingers curl tighter around her shoulder, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, and lets her sleep.

* * *

Myrrine meets them at the _syssitia_ ’s stables at dawn to see them off with packs of food and water for the long ride over the mountains and through Messenia.

“Alexios fights for Athens,” Kassandra says as she swings herself onto her horse. “But I will bring him home, _mater_. I _will_. Whatever it takes.”

“You come home, too,” her mother replies. “ _Both_ of you. That is an order.”

Myrrine lifts her chin, standing tall and proud and every inch the daughter of Leonidas. Even from atop his own horse, Brasidas suddenly feels as if she is towering over them both.

With a curt nod, they depart.

A small unit of horsemen joins them outside Pitana (more bodies sent to die, Brasidas tries not to think) and together they ride, stopping only to water their horses or when it grows too dark to navigate the rocky terrain. Though the party numbers nearly forty in total, few words are ever spoken; doom hangs over their heads as they ride, when they rest—for how can forty Spartans on horseback ever hope to outpace Athenian ships?

 _Too late, too late,_ chants a voice in Brasidas’ head as he paces sleeplessly on watch. _We will be too late._

Kassandra rises before dawn to sit with him a moment as the camp stirs to life, squeezing his hand in a way that would be reassuring if they were in practically any other fucking situation but this.

“Don’t fight him,” she whispers, and he can tell by the tremor in her voice that she is terrified. “Deimos, I mean. I know what he is capable of, so I am begging you now: leave him be. Whatever is driving him to fight for Athens, that is between us.”

“He is killing my men,” Brasidas replies. “He will kill us all.”

“I won’t let him do that. But I need you to stay away.”

 _Run,_ he doesn’t tell her. _When we arrive, take your brother and run away. This doesn’t have to be your fight. This doesn’t have to be your end._

“Please,” Kassandra adds, but they both know that whatever he says will not matter. He’s never known her to run from anything.

In Kallithea, nearly three days from their departure, they receive confirmation that the Athenian navy is fast approaching; the following evening they spot blue sails with their own eyes, looming white owls bobbing up and down in the storm that has already swept up the skeletal remains of Spartan camps and siege-towers scattered like children’s toys on the rocky beach.

Over the wind: the faintest clashes of metal against metal, the faintest shrieks.

A flash of lightning illuminates a great iron pipe protruding from the foremost of the Athenian triremes—a moment’s confusion, then, before a burst of flame renders the lightning irrelevant.

Too late, Brasidas thinks as the pitch-fire engulfs the trees, the tents, the men, clinging despite the downpour like ticks in the summer. They are too late. They have always been too late.

Doom thuds in his chest in time with the rolling thunder as rain pelts his eyes, his armor, his shield and spear.

 _Gods_ , he thinks. _Just let this fucking end._

Then, with a certainty that settles like ice into his very core:

_This is where I die._

He kicks his heels and drives his horse forward. Kassandra and the men follow suit.


End file.
